The Write Sisters are late to the party this week. It's my fault, and I apologize. I hope this poem with its beautiful language makes up for it, as we here along the east coast experience Irene in all her wild attire. Janet
The Dowser’s Ear
Empty cattle trailers
Rumbled dummy thunder
Down the road all day, and now tonight,
Heat lightning flashes more of the same fake rain.
It’s just as well. I couldn’t get to sleep,
And now it ricochets across the sky
With empty loads of light. We’ve had a month
Of drought that tightens dirt around my pond.
The local wells are dry. But I’ve retired,
Threw out my wand. I hate this time of year.
Roux can burn if flour
Sticks in skillet butter.
I’ve been cooking up a storm myself,
My Daddy’s filé gumbo recipe.
He used to be a chef on oil rigs
Until the hurricane. I heard the waves
That killed him, and I hear them every year.
It’s emptiness that fills me. That’s my skill.
I hear the vacant rain before it falls.
It’s like the murmur of a spiraled shell.
Hurricane weather, stewing
Deep for landfall, spewing
Rain-a-plenty in the Gulf and here
In Tennessee they always have a lack
Of something. Two men called today for wells.
I told them both to go to hell, and now
They think I’m sinful, not to use my skill.
They stand to lose so much, but don’t we all.
I lost a lot in Hurricane Camille
And even now can’t hear the end of it.
More heat lightning flashes,
Absent rain that passes
Over clouds, and I can make it out,
Each gurgling current under withered fields,
Down kitchen drains. The neighbors think I’m crazy,
Up all hours, but they’ll never know
The screaming voice inside a breaker’s rage
Or how it simmers in my ear. I hate
The sound of water. Give me one good chance
To make it silent. I’d be right as rain.
-- Wilmer Mills
Funny enough, Irene is hosting Poetry Friday over at Live. Love. Explore!
Go take a look!