Literary Work
river // Dupont // excess CONNOR BEEMAN
I am crossing the river, the only river that matters− the one that means border, that means distance. the one that can only be bridged with aching resolute steel. I am driving myself across it. this is a new habit, an uncomfortable skin, and I risk only a few glances down towards the murk, that rolling mighty thing.
upstream only reluctantly, like there’s a grudge to be held for all that’s been done. there is a factory, all sprawl and steam.
it’s Dupont, on a street that bears the same name, a highway exit dedicated only to its cause. I have never known what they make there, not truly, only that it is somehow necessary. that everything is somehow worthy.
it is the same as it has always been. brown and steady, powerful in its own unnoticed way. night is falling − so the river eats the sun. it bleeds it out. orange, green, slick tan smeared by silt. it allows the barges, the coal and the chemicals,
but I do know that I boil my water sometimes – just to be safe. and I do know that the river is trying to tell me something – that this water’s silence is no accident, but I drive on. as always, I drive on.
Connor Beeman is an emerging writer and recent graduate of Ohio University with a dual degree in Creative Writing and Women, Gender and Sexuality Studies. His work currently focuses on queerness, post-industrial space, and the self and identity. Previous publications include Black Fox Literary Magazine, The Oakland Arts Review, and Ohio University’s own Sphere.
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