Brit Blalock

While I’m swimming in the bay behind my house, BP oil sheen appears.

OK, so appears might be the wrong
                       word. It was less like the immaculate
conception and more like lava. Except
                       you couldn’t see a volcano or a poncho
of ash, no townspeople headed
                       for the hills. We don’t even have hills—
just a mackerel sky, nets like disciples
                       with no Jesus. Or far too much Jesus.
For once, we want a hurricane,
                       a bar brawl we’ve already fought,
a recovery we know will come.

           In the house that night, Mom turned off
           the news, cussed the way she does
           before a good cry. We sat on the porch
           while she chain smoked for hours,
           which is funny because we’re all
           so scared of being suffocated.


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