Miracle of Fishes, Texarkana
It was a short weather event
at the border town—something out of Genesis one local
was quoted spewing on the public radio station.
It’s a meteorological marvel: tornadic waterspouts
sucking up small creatures—fish, frogs, carried in the belly
of the stormcloud for god knows how many miles.
It must be a sight to see, wet flopping flesh
emptied from the sky. It must look like a miracle: animal rain.
It must be a shock, after the storm, so many bodies
cast across lawns, football fields, the airport tarmac.
It must stink. Must be a pain in the ass to clean it all.
Shovels and trash bags. Noses turned up to the wet rot.
It never occurred to me that anything already dead could fall
from the sky, so occupied as I’ve been with burial.
HANNAH SMITH is a writer from Dallas, Texas. She was a 2023 National Poetry Series Finalist, and her poems have been published in Best New Poets, Gulf Coast, Ninth Letter, and elsewhere. Her collaborative chapbook, Metal House of Cards, is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press.
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