Alex Thomas


When I passed out, drunk, under an old oak tree and missed the game, waking to the distant
thunder—or the thunder of RV tires leaving the lot—

            the smell of warm rubber and agriculture (from a nearby floodplain), the combined sweat
of football fans, long after, I traveled

            to the church where you were married for the first time (you’ve since lost your faith)—
that place in my head—where, beside the graves of your ancestors,

            once farmers, now clad in white-striped golf polos, your father pinched your elbow. The
band played “Sweet Home Louisiana”

            as you crossed the yard. Toward a brick altar collecting dogwood petals, and a Marine in
dress blues with hands clasped over his groin—his uniform

            a starless dark: dark as the drowsy moment before moments, that void of collective
memory from which all mythology springs.


Return to Spring Issue Volume 11.2


Alex Turissini


Alex Thomas is a recent graduate of the MFA program at LSU. He lives in Denham Springs, Louisiana.