Poetry by Kelly R. Samuels

Gerry Dincher CC




As Lethe, Daughter of Eris, Speaking of the River 
Come Evening


I drove the river road north. It was not leisurely. 
Everywhere: yellow leaves kicking 
up. The wind was fierce and dry.
I thought the haze must be from distant wildfires
but it was the fields, drier, shedding 
their topsoil. When I stopped, briefly, there was
a Great Clips, a Papa Murphy’s, Nails! Nails!
Nails! An old Kmart converted into KO 
Storage: climate controlled. Clean. Safe. 
Secure. I sat with chocolate and potable water 
and pondered the water I had traveled
alongside—metallic blue, choppy, widening
into a lake with its sailboats sail-less.
Back when you prompted wars 
I did my nails in that same blue. 
I almost forgot you were once, before 
me, of here, where I now rest beside the river
come evening. The light isn’t what it will be, every-
thing bleached out, like those photographs
of the other lake—the one we lived by
in a trailer, poor, thinking on marigolds.
But, it will come and I will settle 
in. I am not near the maximum depth 
down by the delta where there is confluence 
of a different salty nature. And yet, it appears 
deep. Don’t worry. Though I know 
you won’t, having gone the way of 
thousands of years ago. I am talking to what little
remains: there in the corner, where stone meets
the mineral.





Discussing Dysthymia, as Lethe, Daughter of Eris


Afternoons when no one texts I circle
the block wearing my dulled rhine-
stones. They tend to lift my low
spirits, slightly. They jog the memory
of happier days, though I have to 
think long and hard on when exactly
those were. Thousands of years ago 
we came to drink. It was required.
And I suppose I have to own all of it: 
this namesake, these relinquishments
in order to carry on. Get a move on
you would say, standing in the door-
way, lecturing on the uselessness 
of moping. Vague, as yet not 
understood despondency was not 
permitted, especially when the sun
shone in winter. So what, what they 
say? Or how they tend to avoid. 
I try and walk it off with these pieces 
of glass that fool no one and catch 
the light only half-heartedly.





As Lethe, Daughter of Eris, Speaking of the River 
Early Morning


In the morning there are gulls. They crowd 
the lock. Some skim the water farther 
downriver where I have stationed myself
just before sunrise. Everything looks a bit 
weathered: the driftwood pale 
and dry, contorted on the shore. 
I cannot quite orient myself. I think 
what is another state is, in fact, not another 
state but only more of the same, and the hill
she spoke of is lost to me. Gestures: an arm
flung out to suggest direction. You flung
the apple. I could never
have done. Later you stood in front 
of the classroom, chalk in hand, lecturing
on integers—those things complete 
in themselves. Now it is getting lighter
and the moon is less like a coin and more
like a wafer. The early risers walk 
by, cheery. They swing their arms as if 
they know exactly where they are going.
I will drive south, back down the river road
soon. All the trees will still be disappointing,
having either already flared or relinquished
themselves to the sudden hard frost followed 
by warming. I think the water will be less
of metal and the black hat I wear now tossed
off. Behind me: the tall grasses  
blaze, suddenly.

​


Kelly R. Samuels is the author of two poetry collections and five chapbooks—the most recent Oblivescence, a finalist for the Edna Meudt Poetry Book Award (Red Sweater Press, 2024), and The Sailing Place (Bottlecap Press, 2026.) She is a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee with work recently appearing in Denver Quarterly, Laurel Review, and The Glacier. She lives in the Upper Midwest. Find her here: https://www.krsamuels.com/



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