Ghazal for a Dispirited Place

The wild animals seemed less predatory to him than people he had known.

—Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings, The Yearling

A black cat slinks past, stretches its spine in Florida.

A sunset spins cloud curses of purple-carmine in Florida.

I hopscotch sidewalks, sweat streets, land cracks, break

my mother’s back, never cross the line or win Florida.

Crowds of crows slash sleeves, caw black warnings,

carom through copses; the flock’s outline trims Florida.

On a bridge railing, a gull balances, tarsus tucked tight.

A bad-luck gale rattles height-clearance signs, spins “Florida.”

Next door, roofers staple-gun shingles. Dash-dash-dash.

Dot. Dot. Dot. Blue thunder, lightning tines, din, Florida.

Alligators yawn on the shore, bob in the rough shallows.

Skinks hiss across the sugar-sand, serpentine-sinned Florida.

Trouble’s coming—­­­­Caty, bar the door! Pink spoonbills, blushing

feathers back-lit, beat wings, coast high to careen in Florida.

Cate McGowan is the author of a book of short stories, True Places Never Are, which won the Moon City Short Fiction Award and was a finalist for The Lascaux Book Prize. And her novel, These Lowly Objects, is forthcoming from Gold Wake Books. McGowan’s stories, poems, and essays have appeared in numerous outlets, including Glimmer Train, Crab Orchard Review, Tahoma Literary Review, Phoebe, Shenandoah, and the Norton anthology, Flash Fiction International. McGowan is a Ph.D. student and currently serves as the Prose Poetry Editor at Pithead Chapel.