Poetry by Levi Southerland

Levi Southerland writes poetry from his hometown of Dickson, Tennessee. He is an American Literature teacher at Dickson County High School and a graduate student in English at Austin Peay State University. Through his writing, he is interested in exploring and capturing the complex relationships between spirituality and individuality, nostalgia and lived traumas, and human connection to nature. He currently serves as the Poetry Editor for Zone3 Press. (Instagram: @_levighett_)

Self-Portrait as the Catfish I Just Ordered

To the table with the concerningly sticky gingham
I go, to the lip-licking, fork-clutching sycophants,
in the hand of a waitress, a younger girl. Her hair
disheveled, her face too young to bear the heat
emanating from the fry cook, likely another balding
man in his forties who stares too much and showers
too little. And when she serves me up, asks who
got the catfish, I want to scream: No one
gets us, Sarah. They demand us. They stick their
arms down our water holes. They fillet us for supper,
batter up the bottom feeders, and douse us in lemon rain.

Sarah, I still taste him. Every salty touch taunts the taste
buds plaguing my skin, every drop of sweat off his arm
burns like grease. By the time you grow whiskers, he
has had his fill. He’ll slice you up and baptize you in
the bubbling brown oil, send another out with the platter.
And when that waitress asks Y’all need anything else?
Just know, Sarah, you won’t know where else to begin,
so, for the time being,
extra ketchup will suffice.