For three weeks wind blew
trailers off their trucks
and arms off windmills
spun too fast for harvest mechanics.
For three weeks a town
drew lots for madness,
crossing fingers behind backs
individually, holding a bland face
to calm the rattling windows
of their souls.
Until snow fell,
only wine was consumed
in low light, no whiskey.
Until snow fell,
banishing wind,
half the breath of town
was saved for prayer.
Let it be not my son,
my sister to answer
wind’s harassment
with a bullet
this time.
And this time
everyone drew
blank cards,
drew curtains closed
and kept the lid on the fragile
trailer of a town. No one wonders
why women on prairies seventy
years ago heard voices, saw
visions, shattered
sanity, they wonder
why everyone didn’t.
orphan poems 