In August, our June bugs riot and die.
With a shrill Allah-u-Akbar,
they propel their metallic shell
up, then kamikaze
into dull pondsturn to shards
at our feet.
I put aside my Shahnamah, right
my veil. Some girls round up
for mid-day prayer. Even the flies,
spry past May,
clump around puddles
their green mass catches
the black of my polyester dress.
Soon, our studies attune
with the bug buzz. Far and near,
little nuns bow with Zoroastrian zeal
five times to life in the flame. I sit cool
in full shade of the school yard's oak,
shoo gnats, spurn the bend and crack
of dry flax, and spike the joy
of boys who play boisterous ball,
all spring and dart away in fields,
where the sun battles grass.
Little Shaitans! How these
whippersnappers stress their reign
with kicking and dust-making.
I watch
a yellow-winged darter
land on straw, the pond stir
with air-diving and edge-crawling,
its lip suddenly free
from sweet green rot.
Dragonflies scan the home front, set for siege.
-
Issue 53
-
Editor's Note
-
Poetry
-
Fiction
-
Book Review
- David Rigsbee reviews Midnight Lantern: New And Selected Poems
by Tess Gallagher
- David Rigsbee reviews Midnight Lantern: New And Selected Poems