WHERE THE RAGE HIDES

by Rose Saint-Clair

Dizzy of mint, cicadas whir the blooded air to pulse
or my breadth to skip in time as I swirl through the creek—
beating around the rock bed, so the crawdads will fly
into the net. I am seven and laughter bubbles whenever
the shadow of my raised boot blotching the glass shrinks
as sole smacks water and red mushroom clouds billow
to the swell of bullfrogs. After days of ripping wind
and small lightning fires, the creek sat clear. I stomp
and slosh in the gush of cool summer below the wild drooping
cedars—newly transplanted after hill storms upturned the old
ones’ shallow roots. Cedars were never meant for mudslides,
but they’re very pretty and rabbits often burrow in their loose
hold. Five newborns darted out when we dragged the fallen
trees away. I was told not to touch the two kits huddling,
exposed. The mother may leave them. They remained still
through the next day, and had they shuttered another,
I’d have wrapped them in blankets and kept them. When
remembering to check for pets, I found the bunnies gone.
A match-quick interest. Light blazes off the creek. Pops slept
in oak dry sweetness, his fire spreading up the dead
grass in fall—when I was still six. He’d forgotten his slash-burn,
and we spent the night thwacking the bright lickings out
with metal shovels as the birds beated from the tall grass,
swarming above the smoke. I could barely lift mine high enough
to hit a thing, but as I jump on the light spots in the mint marsh,
and watch the red boom underneath, I now think
I could raise the shovel down.

Rose Saint-Clair is graduating Middlebury College with a B.A. in English. She is grateful for the support received while interning at the New England Review, from the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference, and her mom, Regina. She lives on a small farm in Virginia’s Shenandoah region with her family.