While I’m swimming in the bay behind my house, BP oil sheen appears.
OK, so appears might be the wrong
word. It was less like the immaculate
conception and more like lava. Except
you couldn’t see a volcano or a poncho
of ash, no townspeople headed
for the hills. We don’t even have hills—
just a mackerel sky, nets like disciples
with no Jesus. Or far too much Jesus.
For once, we want a hurricane,
a bar brawl we’ve already fought,
a recovery we know will come.
In the house that night, Mom turned off
the news, cussed the way she does
before a good cry. We sat on the porch
while she chain smoked for hours,
which is funny because we’re all
so scared of being suffocated.
Return to Volume 6.2