The Ferryman 

Megan Krupa

 

Charybdis had twice sucked in the sea: the first time she made the mountains visible; the second time the islands; and when she sucks it in for the last time, she will dry it up entirely

-Aristotle, Meteorologica 2.3 

 

When the gods came to Appalachia, 

people brought out saws, candles, and tents. 

 

Filled plastic containers with water 

until there wasn’t any water left in the tap.

 

Loaded them into the trunks of cars. 

for those who lived here before  

an interstate was carved into the bedrock of a mountain. 

 

And those people who remembered the roads leading to Asheville

drove them, as far as they could

until they were met with brokenness.

 

Because the other water, 

a curdled, viscous body, churned

until it spit out the sea 

 

onto the banks of a mountain 

who didn’t remember 

what it meant to hold the weight of an ocean. 

 

Bowed down to it, 

the way you should for a god of the sea. 

 

Trees snapped in two 

until she had her way with the land

before leaving it. 

 

But the next time she breathes,

she will hold it inside.

 

All that ocean and salt and memory 

of what it means to cover a place. 

 

She will leave it to them 

to tell the story of her. 

 

 

Megan Krupa is the author of the poetry chapbooks, Heirloom and Holler. Her poetry appears in As the Crow Flies, Appalachia Bare, and the Anthology of Appalachian Writers. She is an Assistant Professor at East Tennessee State University.