Issue Thirty-Eight - Summer 2021

Heavy Thunder, Real Rain

By Michael Hanner

I know this face and which dog is mine.
I’m looking out my window,
the one that holds this morning,
its slanting sun, rain storms, snow.

I’m looking out that window
It’s Saturday morning, beyond the glass
its slanting sun, rain storms, snow.
I’ve eaten no eggs, no cheese, no grapefruit,

It’s Saturday morning beyond the glass
I’m planting lettuce, raking leaves.
I’ve eaten no pancakes, no grits, no bacon
to drop me into an August languor.

I’m planting lettuce, raking leaves.
A red sweatshirt is out with his weedwacker,
to make a funk of this August languor.
Grilling chicken and yellow jackets,

red weedwacker and its shirt depart.
Here is the summer supper, chicken
grilled with yellow jackets and served
with the recollection of fireflies.

Finally, here is our own private December
where we scattered ashes of cedar.
The world is ending in Technicolor.
It’s lonely being without someone willing

to walk with you over the edge.
There is still what preserves the morning,
the mirror above the sink is my seer.
I know this face, this dog is me.

Copyright 2021 Hanner