'Small Mythologies from a Late Summer Garden' by Jenny Wong

The forecasters predicted horizons to be sunny and clear.  But overhead, a seafaring god worries about his capsizing yacht. Thus begins a day of minor curses.  
Pails of rain bail out the sky.  Silver drops find all the holes in a leaky tin shed. Poppy buds refuse to bloom, hold bursts of red in their hard green fists.  The air smells of wet leaf and drowned matches (burning forests lurk in the east and not even a downpour like this can wash away their threatening scent).  The bushes do what they can.  They droop in their soggy green garments, performing small exorcisms over gasping worms who twitch in their thin gelatin bodies.  

Meanwhile, the chili peppers ignore the troubles brought on by heaven. Instead, they bury their roots into dense clay dirt, reach towards warm southward places. They have already locked the memory of the sun’s heat in their flesh, set their spice levels to 10,000 on the Scoville scale.  

And now, all that is left for them to do is let their skins ripen like fire
and dream of a sky
that holds
no more gods.

 

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Jenny Wong is a writer, traveler, and occasional business analyst. Her favorite places to wander are Tokyo alleys, Singapore hawker centers, and Parisian cemeteries. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, the Best of the Net Anthology, Best Small Fiction Awards, and The Forward Prizes for Best Single Poem (Written). She resides in Canada near the Rocky Mountains. Find her on Twitter(X) @jenwithwords.