The difference in street and river.
Of sanctity and dreams, bones and water.
He offers prayer and thought, but no refuge.
The bruised sky continues weeping.
Frightened, the dog paces her narrow island.
Tents flap in the rooftop breeze.
I sit in comfort, watch the screen,
flowers, like gravestones, lining the walls.
“Houston” was first published at The Green Light in April 2019. Many thanks to editors Caitlin and Ash for taking this piece!
Sunlight sneaks through a crack, feathering
the overgrown lawn, electric blues in the air.
I have forgotten everything I once was.
An uprooted tree, the abandoned
steeple, a lone dog chained to a pole.
The uncertain puddle in a memory of howls.
Last night’s midnight ochre, in spades.
It lives behind me, like the wind.
The low rumble says “look out, I’m coming,” but never specifies what to anticipate. Lightning strikes? Floods? High winds? Sometimes even the rain neglects us. Our pup hides under a blanket in her crate, and I contemplate a run to the store for beer and wine. Three years ago tornados were spotted in this area; they never touched our hills. The storm’s downdrafts bring us the fragrance of ozone. I marvel that three oxygen atoms combined in the atmosphere to produce such delight. How I remember inhaling deep draughts of summer storms in my childhood’s last years, watching thunderheads roll overhead, dreaming of victories and love and certainty, not yet knowing that desires change, that the unexpected always seizes its turn.
Under this roof
we smile at the clouds
our kettle whistling