Drought
There had been no rain
for months (which felt
bone-deep in their ache),
the soil cavernous,
the grasses turned to hay
the daily harassment of summer
(“Another man died today.”)
After the hundred-somethingth day
I held my hands out
through sky, through sweat,
through the withering
to welcome a distant rumbling
that spoke of a coming storm.
The wind picked up,
whipping my hair into my eyes,
and I prayed,
for I felt her
in that moment––
the cracking electricity
that speaks to the presence
of a Goddess.
Tip tip tip tip
on the concrete
the only sound
in the deafening drought
and the answer to our gasps
for breath, we, like fish
asking for relief
our mouths to the sky
open wide.
Rebel
One October
I was resolved to ride a horse.
His name was Rebel,
a fierce fellow who had earned the name
and an unsavory reputation.
He refused to budge when offered apples
and didn’t care for our softness.
Yet, when I was in the saddle
he walked calmly as a dream,
as if he knew my fear––
they say horses do.
He lived in his might
but it was foreign to me
(as was the vulnerability
of trusting so soon).
He did not owe me anything
but he chose to honor me,
or perhaps humor.
I felt I had not earned it,
for how do we earn an animal’s grace?
I think about him often
and wonder what magic occurred
and inspired a powerful beast
to permit a small woman
rocking passage across a silent field.
Erin Ratigan is a freelance writer and journalist with a focus on longform and narrative news features. Her poetry has appeared in multiple publications including Door is a Jar and POETiCA REViEW, and in the nature anthology Echoes of the Wild. She lives in North Texas.
Sparks of Calliope 