Banshee Wind by J. Thomas Burke
My wife clangs through the kitchen,
cleaning up after my breakfast. Crow
on the bare branch stares
in the window, but never caws
my name. His bird-head pivots
bringing one black eye
into full view. I am egg-scrambled
and potato-fried. My stomach
tumbles. Her cooking
is going to kill me. The damn gray wind,
ancient, a wailing spirit, rips through
the cinderblock. It shakes wrought-iron
fences because no wind has bones. I won't listen
to another second of unholy racket. Die
wind, I holler, but still the cry careens across
my concrete walls. A new howl
joins the din with such fury I twist
my neck toward—why
is the skillet arcing
down toward my head?
J. Thomas Burke is an MFA candidate studying poetry in the Creative Writing Workshop at the University of New Orleans. He also serves as a poetry reader for the literary journal, Bayou Magazine. His work has most recently been accepted for publication in the journals Panoply, SPANK the CARP, and Gloom Cupboard.
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