-First hurricane-

Carol’s floodwater moved upward.

Its rainfall was subsiding

But the sewers at the dip on Bedford Street
Between Oak Grove and Quarry 
Were not receiving, belching sewer-stuff

Adding to the slick of stagnating wastewater.

Inside, three kids are sitting in the middle
Of the living-room rug
Protected from shattering glass
Giving them a near uninterrupted

Line of sight to the over-filled candy dishes
Their mother laid-out on every available

Level surface of the house.

In drier times, Bedford was the street to cross
To get to the ballpark, the bakeries
And the always waiting-for-something church
Rising behind left field.

In drier times, Bedford was a rung on the ladder.
It made sense for us to cross it and for the drivers
Of cars to run eastward
And westward making their way to work
Or the unemployment office.

Street games were played on quieter Healy Street
Running parallel to Bedford
Which cut between the backyard fence
And Rachlin’s Junkyard.

But as Carol’s youthful exuberance became full-throated

The elders rounded the kids up to sit on the rug

In the middle of the parlor where crossing strips
Of masking tape covered the windows like lamb’s-
Blood warding off the wrath of God.

Outside, Carol died-down with a last

Lick of her tongue
And her water receded.


Inside, our father, struggling for better reception,
Pressed cocoons of aluminum foil
To the tips of the rabbit-ears as our mother
Contributed to the calming atmosphere
Readying pots of water for the stove and tending
To the near-emptied candy dishes.

                                                     Quequechan