Three Poems

My Ears Aren’t Right

When bodies floated up out of their graves after

the hurricane,
I had no TV to watch.
But too much rain
can translate anything to unspeakable.
First it’s awful,
a downpour, my yard out there, the last
worst place for insects that can’t
burrow deep, even secret ones
they haven’t yet pinned to a lab board, haven’t
crowned with little white slips to say so.

Want to read more?
Please login.
New to Narrative? sign up.
It's easy and free.
The password field is case sensitive. Account & Password Help.