Stark Weather
. . . and it seem as though I could
see my heart before my eyes, turning
dark black with hate of rages, or
harhequinade, stripped from that munner
life leaving only naked being-hate.
—Charles Starkweather
On the Great Plains in March,
the wind blows for days.
Gutter pipes vibrate, shingles flap;
things begin to come loose.
Once they found old Miss Purdy
wandering at midnight on U.S. 40,
her dainty-laced nightgown billowing
over her spindly, blue-gray thighs.
It took three deputies to hold her down
till the doctor arrived.
On the Great Plains in March
the dry elm scrapes
at an upstairs window,
dust devils swirl and disperse
across the wide, empty fields,
and a pistol shot sounds
no louder than a screen door
slapping on a porch.
Copyright Credit: William Trowbridge, "Stark Weather" from Put This On, Please. Copyright © 2014 by William Trowbridge. Reprinted by permission of Red Hen Press.
Source: Put This On, Please (Red Hen Press, 2014)