As We're Dyin'
Rochelle L. Holt
So hot the fire's still awake over palms
that don't wave but just stand beneath orange sun
while cooing doves mourn the humid summer
which melts their wings and makes a walker run,
not because she's seen an alligator -
rather due to stagnant pond become calm.
Even pesty flies are too tired to whir
in swampland baking people in oven
like refugees lost to promise of psalm.
The stingray and jellyfish now often
float in boiling water offers no balm
to tourist, fisher or veteran swimmer.
In late afternoon rains stretch sultry arms
to bolt lightning beyond thunder's whisper,
but some relief is a small word spelled when.
Burnt pups do not bark and old cats don't purr
in long season exploding like timebomb
when Mother Nature spits bullets from gun:
both the schooner and captail at her helm
who knows victory in battle always won
over those who just talk about weather.
