Haunted by Waters

Oh brother, the other shore is farther than our father
carried us across. The same current that hurries
moss and swirls of leaves leaves your ankles
broken down in rolling rocks. If you sink

to your belly for a drink, the shallows swallow.
If you try to stand and step, the deep hand reaches
your throat like alcohol. Bite like the blade
of a driftboat oar midstream and strain to change

the river’s course. Fight your end of the line
how steelhead steals rod and reel. Strike
wet tinder with the pocket thunderstorm you keep

buttoned up. I rain these drops of paper on the water,
but they continue floating by you, brother.

Note: I stole the title from A River Runs Through It by Norman Maclean

What Moves in the Attic

In their apartment? Below, we believe
we know—thud of yanked off the bed
by the ankles. There lies another story split

leveled above. Their eyes diagonal over eggs
over easy, uneasy over groaning hardwood
gaps in the timeline, allnight signs dark, dark

darker in their hair. Thud thud of hearts in each
other’s mouths. Here, noise complaints from us
no use against the arguments of alcohol

or onomatopoeia of murmur, gasp and sigh
past four a.m., unaware of underfloors.
How can we have ourselves shut up there?

Thud thud thud on our downstairs door.

Note: I stole the title from Utter by Gina Franco  

Steven D. Schroeder’s first full-length book of poems, Torched Verse Ends, appeared in 2009 from BlazeVOX. His writing is available or forthcoming from New England Review, Verse, Pleiades, The Journal, and Verse Daily. He edits the online poetry journal Anti- and works as a Certified Professional Résumé Writer.