Poetry by Austin Davis

          Fred Postles CC



Water Lily 


Our relationship was like 
two kids climbing 
to the top of a tree 

who had no idea the branches
would become thinner 
the closer they got to the clouds.

In the same way
the neighbors would 
call the cops 
if they saw me 

sitting in their yard
talking to my imaginary friends
and drawing faces in the mud,

if I pulled up to your apartment
tonight and pretended like 
nothing has changed,

you’d probably think 
I’d came from the parallel universe
where our story ended with
forever and always. 

Okay, I doubt you’d think that.
You’d probably just think
I forgot to take my medicine again, 

but it would be pretty kickass
if some version of ourselves 
found a way to make it work, right? 

If I called you Water Lily 
and told you that the smile on your face 
when your hands are lost in my hair 
is as awe-inspiring

as seeing a UFO 
pass through the desert sky 
from a tent at 3 AM,

you’d look at me as if I were a frog 
you caught in the woods,

cupped in your hands
and tried to run home with,
but accidentally squeezed to death.

Now, whenever I think 
of sneaking into the jr high pool
and skipping stones in the deep end, 

the smell of coconut soap 
still faint on your skin 
the morning after love, 

all I can hear 
is the crack of that branch 
beneath my shoes 

and the head rush 
of falling backwards 
with the leaves. 

Austin Davis is a poet and student currently studying creative writing at ASU and leading Arizona Jews For Justice's unsheltered outreach program. Austin is the author of "The World Isn’t the Size of Our Neighborhood Anymore" (Weasel Press, 2020) and "Celestial Night Light" (Ghost City Press, 2020). You can find Austin on Twitter @Austin_Davis17 and on Instagram @austinwdavis1.

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