It is midsummer, or the time
just before rain.
All day workers dig in the soil
to set a french drain down.
As they turn stones aside,
worms writhe in a frenzy of light.
Meanwhile in the country of grief
writers and scholars begin
to draft petitions, wondering
how soon they might have to go
into hiding. A woman has just
been elected vice president,
but she and all other women
are told they should expect
to be catcalled and shamed
in public. In the country
of grief, the trains fill
and fill all night
with desperate pedestrians.
Nameless bodies begin
to turn up in the fields
at dawn. Such sovereignty
feels both familiar and
shockingly new. Fleeing
before the impending storm,
small creatures run blind
into ditches and traps.
Thunderclouds spit
like loudmouths with no
regard for law or protocol.
In response to Via Negativa: Sad times.