The Weather by Thea Brown


August one late rain-dark  all lingering  water pulled  heavy
to the ground, familiar  and  rundown hill to harbor so  later
rising light  meets air conscience cleared, simple fix, fizz or
one  easy air  is   pleasure  wrung out, is  all  morning  was
yellower,  recasting  local  hotel  gutted  brick, to be  recast
like a film clear pressed just, scrolled, pushed up black nail
crescent crests above the  bed,  pink, above the finger pad,
that  easy  ominous  oval,  a  warning  point.  Don’t  come
here. Change your life. Exchange for gothic, some deader.
But  hovering  at  the  cornerstone,  bluish  metal    finally
cooled   overnight,   blush    swamp .  receded,   dry,  one
pleasure  before the heat-dome recloses,  smothers  rising
dusky, steamy  sleeping in  the park  then, before morning.
The every-heron settles across the way on a detached pier
overgrown with  grasses and goldenrod and streaks  of rot,
stands still in institutionalized mini-island  limbo. Such a
willful   little   park   with   fisher   bird,   cut   off  like  an
inaccessible idea  rooted floating, rooted inaccessible, and
a name, a reason, a word: I love you, you are safe.

Originally from the Hudson Valley in New York, Thea Brown is a graduate of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, where she was a Truman Capote Fellow. Recent poems can be found in Bennington Review, Conjunctions, Oversound, and elsewhere. She is the author of the chapbook We Are Fantastic (Petri Press 2013) and the full-length collection Think of the Danger (H_NGM_N 2016). She lives in Baltimore, where she was the 2016–2017 Tickner Fellow at the Gilman School, a 2016 Rubys Artist Project Grant awardee, and the recipient of a 2017 UCross Foundation fellowship.