Storm Country
—Edie Meade
Storm Country
Morning lingers after with the fullness of a kiss. Wish for the still
to hold hand-painted, finger dogears
into a seaside postcard. But weather substitutes for feelings
in this country & Mark is off to work. What’s the matter
with the sky? It’s war, it’s a fire—it’s someone else’s fire.
Cargo planes scare up the great fishing birds.
In the woods across the river
we found a cannon the size of a furnace. The Dictator,
a 13-inch seacoast mortar; near on ten months
it blasted remnants of the Confederacy holding hostage
our town. Sixty-thousand corpses. How long to bury
the memory, grievances gathering pestilent, blowfly bold.
The next storm makes a silk of the air. Can they feel it?
But from the alley, neighbors who don’t know us
invite Mark to poker night.
Go, I say, not meaning it. Go.
…Will it rain?
We know the answer. Heat billows over like a shroud.
About
EDIE MEADE is a writer, artist, and musician in Petersburg, Virginia. Recent work can be found in Invisible City, New Flash Fiction Review, Atlas & Alice, The Normal School, Pidgeonholes, Litro, Heavy Feather Review and elsewhere. Say hello on Twitter @ediemeade or https://ediemeade.com/.