JUST AS, AFTER A POINT, JOB CRIED OUT

 

 

The soil froze, cursing the weather. It turned a stoic face

to winter’s switchblade and brass knuckles

 

so that when the warm rain came, the soil said, Go on,

there’s no room for you now. Let the backyards

 

pool up, and the river pitch to the bridges, dragging

the bridges down. Now the billboards will become great

 

silent rafts so anyone can climb on them and look out,

saying, I would have done the same.

 

When the water covered the tree trunks and crept up,

the ground shrugged. See, it said. Now,

 

weather, do you understand? Soon,

there will be no resting place.

 

 

K. A. HAYS

 

 

This poem first appeared in Black Warrior Review and was reprinted in Best American Poetry 2011. Poem copyright 2011 K. A. Hays, all rights reserved, used by permission of the author.

More about K. A. Hays.

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This motionpoem is presented in collaboration with Best American Poetry 2011 (Scribner), with thanks to David Lehman, series editor.