The Collective Individual Experience of Drowning
my recollection of Katrina
They say a front
is keeping things at bay, quiet
for this anniversary. My daughter
asks why I sound like that when I recall
things. Sound like there’s a frog
in my throat, Spanish moss, sheetrock. Sound
like the caked cracked mud that covered the land
has filled my voice box. There’s water
trying to get held back
in my eyes, slowly a trickle comes forth
She says, I don’t like when you talk about it
because you always cry. You weren’t
even there! I wasn’t there. I wasn’t there. Out
in Cali hanging around a silver keg
for a fundraiser for dogs. Friends asking,
so how bout this storm? Sparks in
the eyes. Fear, curiosity. Unbothered
breath, my family knows
what to do. Evacuating is for wusses. We’ve
got a grill, beer, clawfoot with ice. Went
to bed secure. It was six bc1b
days before I knew
where my mama was. Her younger sister
actually forced her out as they went
on their way. Gridlock. Contraflow. Brake
light red parade. They got
to Alexandria. To Natchitoches. Bounce
holiday hotels. No cell service. Network
gridlock like Christmas tree string lights tangled
after you ask the kids to take them down. It was six
days. The news repeated images of neighbors with the most
desperate expressions on rooves, on
knees, waving flags. Help Us. Saviors
in pirogues and flat bottoms. 15 feet. 9 feet.
12 feet. 8 feet. Watching standing from my private
puddle. Hoping to catch a glimpse of my own
neighborhood, my NanNan’s neighborhood, a recognizable
face showing signs of life. Dead
bodies float. Cars on fences. Houses off the foundation. I hunted
through each repeated image of epic failure. Hunted channels
for differences, online forums for familiar names. I hunted
and waited the longest waits, picked
up smoking again, until the phone
rang for every single one of them
Sunnylyn Thibodeaux is the author of five full-length collections of poetry, as well as over a dozen small books including Witch Like Me from the Operating System. She is a teacher, neighborhood activist, and tree enthusiast. She is the mother of a Scorpio and wife of a poet and splits her time between San Francisco and New Orleans. In 2026 City Lights will publish Lucky Charms: New and Selected Poems.