13thWR

MARGARET'S RAIN

There are things to be done.
Little dirt birds flutter
in dust. Bustle and bathe
in dirt for want of rain.
I pass through the front room.
Tired windows wedged open
for weeks at a time.
Etta say's, looks like rain, Margaret.
She should know. There are things

to be done. Alarmed birds
ignite into the humid blue womb
of sky. We are alive
in the spine of the snake
and waiting for rain
any day now. We have to eat
early tonight. There are things

to be done. Thunder comes. His shovel
leans on the shed in no particular hurry.
Pudding-eyed dogs roll this way
and that in the beetled dung
of suffering. Preacher's on the way,
he's coming. The rocker lulls itself
to sleep on the porch. A teasing breeze
sniffs at clothes dead or dying

on the line. The kettle shrieks.
Things to be done. Now the rain

slams down. My chickens laugh
like lunatics, flap a scratchy
dance in the yard. Etta's knees
are never wrong. We'll eat early
tonight I take up the cleaver.
Turnips and tails in the soup.

- Maryann Hazen-Stearns