Prophesy (a poem sequence)

The pickers have come in from the fields. 
The river, they said, is bubbling 
with cow’s blood. They hold up their hands 
to show the clotted tears crying in the fields
of their palms. By morning, their shacks 
will be empty, their doors wide as screams,
their old cars kicking red mud from their tires.

§   §   §   §

The river churns high and muddy, 
the ghosts of cars and oil drums 
hurtling downstream in the searchlights. 

Toads and moles crawl up the embankment 
in waves. Like men unaware 
they've been cut in two, they twist
and gasp, grabbing at your arms.

Sand bags or sand castles, 
it matters little. The radio says 
more rain's on the way. The road
will wash out by dawn. Pack your things, 
head to high ground.

 §   §   §   §

There's a doll among the splinters
and a pump that bleeds 

only rust. The shutters on the church
have been pulled tight as a noose 

around the Holy Ghost. Tree limbs
lay about like spent cigars 

and the filling station's closed. Some 
have vowed to return, but who

will charm the snakes from the silos
or burn the rats from the corn?

 

Comments

[Amanda]

Such beauty, such melancholy.