Jennifer Reeser Poetry

Disturbing skies, and in the dark a frightening
howling of the wind through banging blinds.
You raise the rattling window; moisture grinds
against the screen within a bolt of lightning.
The dawn's far off - before it, a deluge
will come, must come: there is a heady price
for balancing the brink of paradise
here in the sultry smirk of Baton Rouge.
The eye may be demolishing your walls;
the awnings from their porticoes released
as someone strange pronounces you deceased
and high gusts shriek in intermittent squalls.
You may not realize until too late
water is rising to your upper floors,
the knobs of antique crystal on your doors -
discreet, hand-sculpted keyhole, silver plate
submerged as any swampy cypress knee.
Pecan limbs hung with bags of reptile leather
or beads from past parades, entwined together
with seafood ads and signs for local tea
are things you'll start to recognize as apt.
A funnel cloud, not wholly there but forming,
will drop, then disappear, the meters warming.
Black coffee in your cup becomes white-capped.
Soundest of attitudes will seem insane;
your books will page to pieces on their shelves;
pine shutter slats make music by themselves,
as you embrace and curse the hurricane.

Poet: Jennifer Reeser