Kristy Bowen
TORNADO WEATHER
We soon tire of broken things,
the lawn furniture bent skeletal
in the yard, the grass patchy
and pale, the way day
divides into a thousand nights,
each warmer than the last.
Soon, we are sleeping
on the porch, hauling
the mattress outside
in a cloud of dust,
moths fluttering against
our eyelashes, rainwater
collecting in our mouths.
Expectation hangs from a nail
by the door, each breath at my ear
contingent on the last,
words drowning in the sway of trees,
the beginning of a motion.
In the afternoon, we drive,
spinning hours like spiders,
your childhood no more
than a tipped cup, an impossibility.
Mine, a bramble rose.
We are cautious of stories,
how they are always waiting to happen.
There is no way back from here,
you tell me in a dream, your hand
brushing my stomach, delving
between my thighs. Each night,
we wait, quiet as stones for sunrise,
for the world to right
itself in a flush of sparrows.
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