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“On Day 42 of the Oil Spill”

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This poem is based on an eerie sound I have been hearing recently in my back yard.

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ON DAY 42 OF THE OIL SPILL

In dry woods behind my house

one of the trees is squeaking

in rising winds, perhaps a heedless

willow over-reaching its new branch

down to the evaporating gully.

One of the trees is squeaking, a sound

like the final swipes of paper towel

on an attic window — thin and septic,

a pinched distress. One of the trees

reminds me of a injured creature

squealing. Its zithering goes on and on,

no rainstorm to come to our aid.

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by Therese L. Broderick

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About ThereseLBroderick

Independent community poet living in Albany, New York USA.

2 responses »

  1. Hi Therese,

    Some sounds can shred the nerves. Your phrase :”thin and septic,/a pinched distress.” is very atmospheric.

  2. Therese, this poem is so perfectly pitched. I know these dry, distressed sounds.

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