All those cicadas didn’t come
this far South. I didn’t get no night noise,
no overwhelming sense
of being alive. Nothing out-buzzed
the traffic ‘copters, the whine
of forgotten dogs tied to trees.
No one told me about the Borealis
lights—I didn’t see the soft
candy sky, the surreal smears
of gold and green.
The eclipse was all cloud cover
and a black snake ate
whatever baby birds we had.
Rain’s been so heavy, the herons
fall from Live Oak limbs
like pennies down a thin well. A girl
was strangled and thrown into
the bayou, again and again. I saw
a man so hungry, he ate his own
beard for breakfast. The heat
here makes everyone crazy, boils
our hearts into hate.
A poem should turn eventually,
offering respite and release, ending
with beauty or hope—but my lines
are tight, my images alive,
and the real truth is
there’s no good cheer here.