Rachel Marie Patterson

Metairie (6)

The palmetto bugs refuse to be poisoned.
One night we argue half-asleep, then wake
to thunder that rattles the marsh soil.
In the morning, the dogs lap spilled coffee.
A friend calls from Boston to tell me
about the burst pipes and the blankets;
I recite the names of the saints I’ve learned.
High noon, the moon and the sun
cross in the sky. I take a picture.
The neighbors tell me they’re building
another building where a hospital used to be.

Rachel Marie Patterson is the co-founder and editor of Radar Poetry (www.radarpoetry.com). She holds an MFA from UNC Greensboro and is currently a PhD candidate at the University of Missouri. The recipient of an Academy of American Poets Prize, her work has appeared in Smartish Pace, Parcel, Nashville Review, The Greensboro Review, Fugue, and Redivider, among others.
MORE POEMS
  • blue
    Lauren Michele Jackson