Thea Matthews
Long Lake
Union County, 1994
In the night,
you smell the algae
in the lake. The
inlet swallows them
like caplets.
Fresh water, earth,
and musk hold
the fingerprints.
No explosion. No splash.
Only the silence
seeping in
through the vents.
You stare at the water,
catch a glimpse
of stars. You want
to believe there is
still a chance.
You have given
yourself clearance.
No more diaper
changes or feedings.
No more staged
Kmart portraits or
paying for bowl cuts.
You know the lake
was named after
a Klan member,
so it’s easy. Go on,
tell America who
took your precious
babies, your beloved
sons. Describe him.
She’ll believe you––
across the nation.
What is race to you
when nothing
that came before
you was any good
and what came after
is strapped in two car seats
of a red 1990 Mazda.
I know by thirteen
you wanted to die,
and by sixteen,
your stepdaddy
knew your depth.
The church felt
different ever since.
He can’t be blamed.
Another married man’s
sweat is what you
crave. You think
you can still keep
your husband
in the dark?
Try America.
The circuit
blows
out.
Thea Matthews is the author of "GRIME" (City Lights Books, 2025), winner of the PEN Oakland Josephine Miles Award, and "Unearth [The Flowers]" (Red Light Lit Press, 2020). Her work has appeared in Kweli Journal, The Atlantic, ZYZZYVA, Colorado Review, The Common, Obsidian: Literature & Arts in the African Diaspora, The Massachusetts Review, The New Republic, and Alta Journal, among others. Originally from San Francisco, she lives in Brooklyn, New York.