Poetry

Marcus Metropolis photo

By

Trish Hopkinson

hurricane

oh maria    your lead foot pushes down hard    revs through atmosphere with twenty inches    rain with winds hurl & crush    friction of sky &    stars pulling the umbilical cord    of tiny islands    clipping at the quick    so close it nips a bit    of abdomen    letting loose bloodlines    you are like a hurricane / there’s calm in your eye    how we cry for you    maria your swollen expanses around each band    the eyewall stretching the womb    tightens with each kick each squirm of limb &    lever pressing outward &    inward at once    as if there’s no room to bend or grow in this lonely        ocean        it may happen here    you may be born     a caesarean escape sliced from rim to rim    a body lies        gaping    you are like a hurricane / there’s calm in your eye     dis-connected     at once infrastructure collapses rubble of three point four million people we don’t want    to be present when you emerge    blown away        the molted feather    the screech owl flutters beyond your catch    ave maria    where has your gabriel gone       somewhere safer where the feeling stays

italics are lyrics from Neil Young’s song “Like a Hurricane”

Not my flag

When the good ol’ boys swung

their lower halves through open windows

of the General Lee, I watched with interest,

even tapped my foot to the theme—

how they’re never meanin’ no harm.

No harm in heritage standing hard-wearin’

in the tainted bronze of Robert E. Lee,

in the tilted white capuchon, torches lit,

flag unveiled. They’re just makin’ their way,

the only way they know how.

I was a child and I liked muscle cars,

liked the not-so-bad-boys runnin’

from just a little bit more than the law

will allow. I didn’t know Heyer and Harris

were on their bucket list, didn’t know

the blue cross of stars on red over

their heads was a symbol for the same

KKK that spray painted their name

on my grade school, didn’t know

one day, they’d be given permission

again, didn’t know another good ol’ boy

would take a seat aside the General Lee, singin’

You know my momma loves me

But she don’t understand

They keep a showin’ my hands . . .

Lyrics from the Dukes of Hazzard theme song by Waylon Jennings

Trish Hopkinson

Trish Hopkinson has always loved words—in fact, her mother tells everyone she was born with a pen in her hand. A Pushcart nominated poet, she has been published in several anthologies and journals, including Stirring, Pretty Owl Poetry, and Chagrin River Review; and her third chapbook Footnote was published by Lithic Press in 2017. Hopkinson is co-founder of a regional poetry group, Rock Canyon Poets, and Editor-in-Chief of the group’s annual poetry anthology entitled Orogeny. She is a product director by profession and resides in Utah with her handsome husband and their two outstanding children. You can follow Hopkinson on her blog where she shares information on how to write, publish, and participate in the greater poetry community at https://trishhopkinson.com/.