Blood in a Drought Year

 

Blood in a Drought Year

In a midnight thunderstorm,
Jeannie my landlady phones, says she’s scared.
Says a man pounded on her door
dark and bleeding like a redwing blackbird.
He wanted to use her phone
so she wrapped his ribs in a sheet.
He told her to turn out the lights
so he wouldn’t be seen.
“Wait a minute. You let him in?”
“Of course! He was naked.”
Jeannie is 80, still a coquette.  

I go next door to Jeannie’s house.
On the floor, drops of blood.
Back yard I find a sheet, scarlet stain.
She offers me a hot toddy, makes one for herself.
Offers one to the sheriff when he arrives.
Sheriff calls for a canine unit.

Drama usually starts down in Hippie Hollow,
so by flashlight I walk to where a clutch of people
are smoking sweet stuff. Old story.
Sharon the window dancer caught
by her boyfriend in bed with another man.
Took the argument out to the street. All drunk.
A knife. The dude ran. It’s a game they play.

I report to Jeannie. Sheriff shakes his head.
Jeannie makes more hot toddies.
Canine says the dude is long gone.
The oak trees drip but the rain has stopped.
Stars overhead, clear and crisp.
Jeannie says “No matter how badly my body hurts,
nights like this keep me alive.”

Thunderstorms drench the night,
quickly pass. After lightning,
the air is so crisp, so fresh.
We need the rain.

…..

First published in Red Eft Review
Note: another poem about my landlady. This particular night was October 7, 1974. We lived  in a funky little enclave of cottages called Wagon Wheels. It was never boring. I’ve written about Sharon the window dancer in another poem…