I read that Johannesburg is the world’s largest city
not on a river, lake or ocean. That’s what I read.
Water is important. But what I know for sure
is that my grandmother could not drink water
just before she died and I remember feeding her
ice. My mother, well, she died like a vapor
before I could even feed her goodbye.
My father anointed his dry mouth with a swab
dipped in water the night before he passed.
And I wake up and reach for the bottle
on the nightstand and just before
the water passes my lips a thousand thoughts
enter my mind and I drink anyway,
thirsty, but what choice do we have, really,
but to stay close to water
for as long as we can
By Harry Calhoun
Harry Calhoun grew up ... spent his early years, he has yet to grow up... in Connellsville, a town south of Pittsburgh. When wanderlust struck, he tiptoed to Pittsburgh before his parents realized he was gone. Years as a bartender, article writer, poet, and, finally, a marketing writer followed. He spent the mid-90s starving and doing poetry readings in Key West before relocating to Raleigh, North Carolina, where he has spent the past fifteen years. Harry has been published in a ton of places, edits Pig in a Poke magazine, had a book published last year and a book and two chapbooks published so far this year.
Harry’s poetry says he loves his wife and dog and likes being alive in general. Admirable. When he looks at the dark side, he’s keeping himself honest. Reflective. He writes because he’s too old to play lead guitar in a rock band; so what else is there? Pragmatic. His e-mail address: Harry Calhoun
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