Yellow light seeps through the clouds
pretending the storm has passed.
I am drawn to this falsehood like matches to
the abrasive box-end, a swatter to the fly.
Old women wait in the creeping water,
confidence draining with every risen
inch, their ears straining to believe.
As hill meets dusk and torn sky,
where heroes reveal their shared voice,
fear’s black finger scratches the roof.
“Dickinson, Texas” first appeared in Ristau: A Journal of Being in January 2019. Many thanks to editor Bob Penick for taking this piece.