William Lantry

AFTER THE THUNDERSTORM (TOULUMNE CREEK)

Lighting a damp twig fire
(I found beneath fallen cedars
fungused and choked with ants)
I think of the thousand women
igniting immaculate ranges,
waiting for their husbands
to drag themselves home
across the dusty slate
of the San Joaquin.

They hope only for silence
and sweat.  Silence blooms on children's lips
as their father approaches,
his hand on the ratchety gate.
Sweat is the blossom
of a young wife who listens
to his usual words.

And she knows before he speaks
how the crows lifted
or fell at his passing
or why the well rope
is being replaced, again

because she has given her life:
after dinner, the glasses are empty
she gathers them up as I gather
trout from the darkening waters,
waiting for someone
who will never arrive.