It Never Storms on the Eastside
Forehead pressed to rainy window. Oil slicks
atop asphalt while gaze gets lost. I’ve
cut enough to know corroded rust colors
my palms preparing a Sunday dinner.
Hope is a dangerous thing for a woman--
wonder what kind of stain I’ll leave behind?
Look past Black blemish & watch swirling silt
shimmer. We are all hazy holograms,
Black magic brewing in the pothole. I
swerve to avoid being swallowed up whole.
Forehead pressed to rainy window. Oil slicks
atop asphalt while gaze gets lost. I’ve
cut enough to know corroded rust colors
my palms preparing a Sunday dinner.
Hope is a dangerous thing for a woman--
wonder what kind of stain I’ll leave behind?
Look past Black blemish & watch swirling silt
shimmer. We are all hazy holograms,
Black magic brewing in the pothole. I
swerve to avoid being swallowed up whole.
Rayelee McFee is a poet from Midwest City, Oklahoma where she lives with her boyfriend and two daughters. Her work has appeared in publications such as Up the Staircase Quarterly, and her debut chapbook is forthcoming from Dancing Girl Press. Follow her on all platforms @RayeleeMcFee.