The Language of Dirt

by Michelle Porter

she said, listen, the dry season speaks

in the voice of a thunderstorm.

she said, what we forget about cracked

riverbeds is the length of their memory, 

their affair with the story of water.

she said, the language of dirt holds

the old words we’ve needed to translate

the arroyo, to read how to

survive the time between rains.

she said, the storm is closing in,

tight as a fist.

been coming on for years:

always knew the wind was going to tear

this grasping from our hands.

she said, waiting is helpless work.

it’s almost a relief, almost,

to stand exposed to the torrent. shivering.

she said, come wind, take the roof off

this house, she said come flood

take the rest, rise over all we have

she said, the packed dust of us remembers

the slip and the muck of moving on.