Two Poems by Zach Powers

Art by Gareth Harrison

Entropy

At the end of the patched potholes,

there’s another pothole.

This is how earthquakes happen.

This is how a zipper works.

I stitched up the rip in my blanket

only for a new rip to open up.

Do I gnaw in my sleep?’

Are my nightsweats acidic?

A duvet cover is the worst invention.

That, and the very first weapon

to open a person in a way

that couldn't be plugged.

A carpenter bee won’t sting,

but it’ll meticulously fuck up

your porch.

I guess what I’m saying is,

let it.

Often all we’re left with is

the mend.

Cafe du Monde

Like the ocean,

I named my depressions.

I’ve crossed the Potomac

hundreds of times.

The Savannah dozens.

The Mississippi

at least a few.

Like the Meteorologist,

I must also know

geography. A graph is

a metaphor to share

the gist of these numbers.

I must roll on the floor.

I must memorize all

these logos. To take and

ace the quiz.

I went to school with

so many Katrinas. I left

school in NOLA before her.

I laughed at the flooding

at first because

what rain hasn’t

flooded what streets?

I knew

so little of levees.

Last night I dreamed

of the little Greek diner

on Decatur Street where

we would go for dinner

before shows at Snug

Harbor.

Levy these dreams

to sweeten memories. Learn

not to inhale

when taking a bite of beignet.

Inhale anyway.

Being

underwater, in this sense,

merely a feeling.

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Zach Powers is the author of the novels The Migraine Diaries (2026) and First Cosmic Velocity, and the story collection Gravity Changes. His writing has been featured by Black Warrior Review, American Short Fiction, Lit Hub, and elsewhere. He serves as Executive & Artistic Director for Poet Lore and The Writer’s Center. Get to know him at ZachPowers.com.