Today's poem is by Dana Roeser

In the Horse Latitudes — Dodging Acts of God on 1-65 on a Tuesday

                Every modern house has electric wiring carrying power and light to its interior. We are
                delighted with this dependence; our main hope is that nothing will ever cut off the supply
                of current. Twelve Steps and Twelve Traditions, p. 36

          Electricity all around
us, the 12 X 12
          says. Let Him—H.P.—
support you
          like a
current. My husband's
          ever present hand
stroking his knees
          in contemplation.
The bank only
          wants to hear
his voice, I tell him
          laughingly. "You're
their honey." Rock from
          a passing truck slams
the windshield
          makes a
divot. He's contemplating
          men again
sleeping with
          them. It's worse
in the summer. My desire
          flames up like a
hot U.T.I.
          I could have sex
four times a day. I tell
          the first part
to California Mike after
          the Twelve-Step
meeting. The Third
          Step. Let him carry
you like
          a current
like your house
          has lights your
          dependency on
them doesn't
          make you less
free. Rather
          more so
maybe. Cara, the
says she's been
doing things
          on her own
since she was
          tiny! Likewise
she learned
          to maneuver the
Vicodin/alcohol balance
          to perform
as 'Smiley the Clown"
          for her
children. She did
          a damn good
job of living
          her life loaded. No
need of any
assistance. Maybe
          he should
experiment, Mike says,
          referring to my husband.
Blackout. Plunge into
          the Atlantic—
nosedive—the pilot
          signaled he was flying
through an area
          of electrically-charged
clouds. Then, an
message, "Failure
          in an electronic
circuit." And that is
          all that was known
of Flight 447,
          a towering inferno
of a storm—
          —in the Horse Latitudes
off the coast
          of Rio de Janeiro.
Higher than a plane
          can fly.
55,000 feet. Air France
          officials standing
around the Paris airport
          with the counselors.
A counselor? I've
          got one. She
shrugs about the thunderclap
          of my
husband's desire. Act of
          whom? She says
what would be the
          crime if you
were wrong in the
case? With the Botticelli angel-
          faced student.
Wrong. Clap.
          Slap. It would
snap me out of
          this accustomed dimension.
My husband hasn't
          even heard about
the plane crash.
          He's in a
dream. He and James
delectating on
          a couch. So many
banned topics
          in our poetry
group! I'm allowed
          to write about
flowers—I think. Or things
          that happened
in prehistory. An Act
          of God in Flora.
          struck a
          power surge
ignited a couple's
          house. The husband/
father got
          out. But not the wife
and two young
          children. Depend
on your higher
          power like
a mystery—electricity—
          but hope
the horses don't
          jack out of the
paddock when Jodi
          opens the gate
to let Jones out. Taking
dancing pushing through
          the orange metal
door. Grey, bay,
          chestnut. Dreamer,
Flipper, Blue. Their
          blind muscled
bodies, their thick
          necks. While we
stand below, yelling,
          bang their chests
to make them
          go back.

Copyright © 2013 Dana Roeser All rights reserved
from Green Mountains Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission

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