by Rose Menyon Heflin
stretch out pointed spines,
gasping for a sweet drink,
as thunder rumbles over
the Guadalupe Mountain Range,
just skirting the monarch’s dusty crown,
bringing with it dark and ominous clouds.
Meanwhile, all the animals taste the rain
as they take shelter preemptively,
eagerly awaiting water,
and I am left wondering
exactly how many
more downpours remain
deep down in my
Rose Menyon Heflin is a writer and artist who was born and raised in rural southern Kentucky. She now lives in Wisconsin, where the winters are unforgivingly cruel and the barbecue is blasphemously bad. Her writing has appeared in numerous journals spanning five continents, and her poetry won a Merit Award from Arts for All Wisconsin in both 2021 and 2022. Among other venues, her poetry has recently been published or is forthcoming in After . . ., CREATOPIA, Fahmidan Journal, Fathom Magazine, Fiery Scribe Review Magazine, Fireflies’ Light, Isotrope, LIGHT, Of Rust and Glass, Red Door Magazine, Red Weather, The Remnant Archive, Salamander Ink Magazine, San Antonio Review, SPLASH!, and Xinachtli Journal (Journal X). Read her previous poems in Deep South here.