Weather Front
J. Quinn Brisben
The front is moving somewhere in the west,
Not here yet but in the outer tendons
Of my right knee an ache smolders
And another on top of my metacarpal arch.
Pain is good for predicting the weather.
Pain is the one sure sign of life.
The front slips east as the planet turns.
Somewhere on I-80 near the Mississippi bluffs
A belt of ozone and troubled dust
Hangs in our nostrils like sour-mash fumes.
The tv weather line glows and sidewinds,
Confirming my leg as a prophet of turbulence.
Five hours west behind the front
I hope you see kids jumping in puddles.
I hope you are making love by a streaming window.
I hope you have taken in every leaf on every tree
In this last month of the green season
And are keeping on top of your pain.
There is nothing for it except to live,
Burying iron for next May's hydrangeas,
Planning better puddles for the kids,
Trying to keep poison out of the rain,
Catching the voices in the wind,
Connecting across the weather front.
Let the Bible-thumper in the bare-walled church connect us.
Let the yarn-spinner in the front-porch chair connect us.
Let the psalmists, prophets, and Walt Whitman connect us.
Let Emma Goldman and Marx and Debs connect us
Across the weather front.
