The Meadow 185 Cadralor #5: “Divining” Lori A. Howe 1. In my mailbox this morning, fishing boats and fog: a postcard from Maine, nourishment from the sea. Barefoot on the porch, I ate the entire thing, freshwater snow melting to salt in a fractured halo at my feet. 2. DaVinci was a woman: he often thought this. How else to explain such a yearning to give birth, to burst forth wings? His wife put her mouth to his, a kiss to cool, not to quench. She knew the secret, of course. Only women can fly. 3. Take the train to Cinque Terre: five riotous bouquets scale the cliffs, an effervescence, a circus of lemon and raspberry. After the flood, Vernazza rebuilt for violent weather, knowing the passion of water. Looking up, I see a slender, honeyed leg as sea wind takes the curtain. 4. In 1954, drought in Great Britain wooed Catherine Bent out of hiding. She needed no rod, no map: her liquid core seethed with tiny, flame-haired mermaids echolocating, diving for water; she fell to the ground, pulled by human thirst, her mouth filling with emeralds. “Witch,” they called her. 5. You stand on the other side of this bridge I have forgotten how to cross. I know this chasm, poppy-bright with cassowaries. The ratio between recipe and thirst is often disproportionate. But oh, the blue depth of thirst. Oh, this river.
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