Judy Johnson



Waiting for Rain


Judy Johnson


Humidity has the weight

of a cumulative poison.


Cicadas are clutches

of castanets.


The plee-erks of a dozen

dark knives


of black cockatoos


prise open a dozen

swollen window frames

in the sky.


The cat cuffs its ears

with a paw

feeling the ache

of building pressure.


But tonight

the yard is still


a battered silver platter.


The spider embroiders

the hot plate of its web.


Outside the pub,

in the still-steamy midnight


drunk men howl

with the full moon

in their throats.





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