She grew up in the land of twisters,
seeking shelter in middle bathrooms.
She baptized herself in the rivers of glass
sparkling through the broken house.
Wall clouds turned and blackened,
the sky decayed, fell down from itself.
Monsters ate trees in the night
but by morning, birds always returned,
the feeders full of color and song,
while all around hailstones melted.
Only small questions remained, then;
the big ones were all torn up
with the trees and trails, apologies
she used to believe she owed.
A familiar man in coveralls claims
he can repair the roof faster, cheaper,
better than the other guys who don’t
understand these things (sign here please).
Her fists clench, knuckles ache like love;
she relaxes only when he leaves.
She whispers secrets to her daughter:
about the days of electricity and engines,
about the thrill of kneeling wild-eyed
before the weather radio’s robot voice,
about prayers for thunder and wind,
about how she learned to control storms
and how everything that happens
flashes in a dark and roaring instant.
Call this my first NaPoWriMo poem for this April. I had mixed feelings about the whole thing last year, but here I am again, back for more. I won’t be posting here on weekends, of course, but I’ll still be writing my daily stones at a gnarled oak (but I often don’t post weekend stones until Monday). One where or another, though, there will be daily poems.