Helicon Cracking

This cadence makes me     crave rain,
the past-ripe grapeshot     of a grandstanding,
ill-bred downpour,     ignited by lightning,
drowning me in a blast     of bursting coins.

I’m sick of this metro-     sexual drizzle,
low-salt spa sheen     sweet-talking my skin,
christening me     a member of nothing,
just one more sleep-     walker on the sidewalk.

When will I hear     the white steed’s
hooves on rock     and Helicon cracking,
the freed spring     speaking from the fissure?

Wasting away,     I am wasting away
on vapor, caution,     equivocation.
I need fire, Zeus,     not fog, not you.

Author of the article

M. B. Powell’s poems have appeared in Atlanta Review, J Journal, The Raintown Review, and elsewhere. Awards for individual poems include Atlanta Review’s International Poetry Competition Grand Prize (for “Phrases for Public Speakers at Sea”). Her chapbook Lovers, Mothers, Killers, Others was published in 2013. Powell received a Ph.D. in English and Comparative Literature from Columbia University. She lives in Union, Washington.