by Fabrice B. Poussin
Counting the drops, it is not always clear
that a flood may be coming by way of the river.
Walking on the tow path, mooing at the bovines,
singing the melody familiar to the wild coyotes;
no light seems to hold power over the new darkness;
clouds thick as a dirty milk shake, freeze up above.
The Earth sweats stones of granite and clay,
attempting to hold on to a shred of a feeble life.
But the torrent swells, and cries with deafening laughter
at the foot of the ruling temples, dark and thick as blood.
No life is safe within the reddish shroud cutting like a knife;
the air suffocates, filled with dusty death in this war.
No exit safe, but to be carried off by the waves,
to find a certain rebirth in a deep, vast ocean clean.
Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at Shorter University. Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and many other magazines. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River Review as well as other publications.