Evenings when squid-spat meringue clouds
swim across the full moon,
rain seems so imminent
you taste wet soil on your tongue.
Even the noon wash struggles against drought.
If you watch from your window
hands trapped in grillwork,
if you watch with 13-year-old eyes
that still mirror blotches in wet beds,
the wind is Paganini playing
the clothesline while thunder gates
of hell open behind the sky stage.
This approaching storm has so much
the feel of war, something you’ve dined with
as spectator whose appetite for bad news
increases with every meal.
In the backyard, victims are grass,
the procession of torn marguerites,
pegs flying like shrapnel, dried leaves.
Here from fenced life behind the glass
you watch your mother run
in an effort to rescue clothes,
her pleas for help
a silent movie you’ve watch so many times
you forget to laugh.