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Transformer Blows
By Laura McCullough
Third time in eighteen months; something
.....must be wrong. One by one, along Route 9
..........near the bay, the telephone poles blazing
when it happens, commutes translocuted
.....for hundreds of us: we all pull U-turns
..........and head back toward where we started
looking for alternative routes not costing
.....us too much time. The third time, I didn’t
..........turn around, but pulled over to watch,
the pole tilting like some Klan cross
.....on the edge of this guy’s lawn, the one
..........with the trailer home and the peacocks
and peahens, yes, crazy as that seems,
.....and they often walk onto the highway,
..........so I know them well. Someone hit one
one once. It was smashed, feathers
.....scattered, the body as dead and bloody
..........as any raccoon or stray dog, and over
the days I went to work, the weather
.....and car tires wore it away, so it was
..........flattened to a blowzy residue the day
the transformer blew. I didn’t go back.
.....I watched it blow and blow – a white,
..........gold ball blasting my day open, membrane
of air like a seam ripped, a wound torn,
.....and to the right, the trailer, and the peahens
..........hiding somewhere, but the peacocks milling
about, agitated, screaming their coarse words
.....over and over and beyond them, I watch
..........the water I so rarely notice anymore.
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