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C.N.P Poetry 

  • Writer's pictureCathexis Northwest Press

There Was a Crick Behind My Mom’s House

By: Cooper Shea

you had to walk down this huge, leafed hill to get to it

and the water was green but the sound was great

a sweet, lowdown sound of stir rushing

I’d pull up my jean legs and walk to the middle

let the water run around me

and feel the rocks and mud and twigs and everything under my feet

I don’t think the crick is there anymore

I think it is dried up, now

and that only makes me a little sad

I told this to a newer friend

got through the whole story

and I thought maybe it was beautiful

maybe a little

and the guy listened the whole time and was very respectful

but after he just said: you know it’s pronounced creek, right?

I just looked at my feet

fuck that guy


Cooper Shea is a poet from Iowa. He is a recent graduate from the University of Northern Iowa and contributed to the literary magazines Inner Weather, Periphery and Sun and Sandstone. He’s just...he’s trying, man.


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