by Chase Harker

We all know the way the dead
Will weigh their anchors when
Hurricanes are ravaging roots—

How fishermen will reel in
Their lines when bras or rubber boots
Are caught upon their hooks—

How women will wind up
Their leaky buckets from wells
When their water tables have dried—

How children will release
Their kites when hard gusts draw
Beads of blood from their palms—

There is no need to speak of it.

Chase Harker is a native of New Bern, North Carolina. His work has previously appeared in storySouth, Mantis, Appalachian Review, Madison Review, Roanoke Review, and elsewhere.