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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