Squall Line
____________________________________

In a farther sky rain gathers.
The smell is nickel. I long to replenish,

lean out like a dog, mouth sprung, tongue
loose, lapping the mineral air

because I must. In the quick theater of highway,
a low bird sidles to his bleed of meat.

C’est dommage. I’ve never been bitten—
only struck solemn, as in a parlor

where the hands lie crossed. Clouds bloat
the horizon. Let’s go back, I say,

to the other version of us.
But we are taken with the scramble of rain

over weed, over bed-rolled hay—
the decant of all missed things.

 

From The Mending Worm by Joan Houlihan, 2006

New Issues Poetry & Prose, Western Michigan University, Dept. of English,
1903 W. Michigan Ave., Kalamazoo, MI 49008-5331
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