Jamie Ross

Issue #
October 3, 2017

After the Drought

After the drought, the frogs.

They come with the rain, sudden

monsoons now flooding

the parched arroyos and stockponds.

Frogs by the thousands, and

the mesa is filled with their music.

It’s more than croaking, it’s electronic,

from every direction this burrrup,

this twee-too ki zhaw buzz,

think of phonelines and transformers,

think of neon flashing ballasts

gone to 50,000 watts beyond Las Vegas

in the sagebrush in the now clear

coolness of infinite post-rain dark,

holy stars to answer in their

blink, blink, their subtle flash

of recognition, every constellation

waking from its hibernation,

re-hydrant and alive after months,

after eons, fully vital, filled

with themselves, back in their

own bladders, back in their own

water, back on a wavelength

tuned before birth; how she arrived

last Sunday, Ashley, after night

had closed our book, your headlights

wild with halogen, your one blind eye

still rivets me, I hold your hand

and worship every kri gaw, ko kru,

every bozit tanga toba, every

living syllable, Sofía, Sofía

leaping from your womb.

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