Steven D Schroeder

Portents

Pain in our arthritic joints meant rain.
A forked branch’s twitch meant
clean groundwater. The safety inspector
who passed away after testing
what trickled thick and rusty as blood
from wells during the drought months
could have meant anything
by unfit for human consumption.
If we found a penny on the sidewalk,
strangers would be coming to town.
If we found any foreign coins,
misfortune would soon follow.
When a four-year-old was lost
exploring the quarry despite the signs
we posted with the clear warning
No Hope to Prevent This, strangers
took the blame. The first time
a patient took sick with the shakes
after the doctor started selling
nerve tonic as a cure-all, we called
that case wait and see. The second
was both sides of the story. The third,
isolated incident. The situation
where twelve fell from the church
stairway built of spackle and prayers
with a blank check and no-bid contract
we ignored as according to plan
or agreed to decide hadn’t happened.
We all dreamed the same dream,
that we somehow elected mayor
a literal feral cur, and councilmembers
now went missing. Waking, we knew
the truth was give him a chance.
After the newspaper editor’s suicide
by icepick to the back of the neck
led to the headline HOW MANY
LIVES WOULD IT TAKE BEFORE
YOU BELIEVE, our answer
turned out to be every single fucking one
and more might be enough.

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Steven D Schroeder's second book, The Royal Nonesuch (Spark Wheel Press), won the Devil’s Kitchen Reading Award from Southern Illinois University. His poetry is recently available in Copper Nickel, DIAGRAM and Sixth Finch. He works as a creative content manager for a financial marketing agency in St. Louis.