Just Another Storm

by | Jun 24, 2023 | Writing the Weather

Blasted by winds of silent rage, this would be nothing less than a tsunami. No trees left standing. A Northeastern whitecapped behind his glasses. Constricted eyes pillaged villages with hands clasped delicately in his lap. Long as I could remember, this violent turbulence touched down and tore up the same fragmented single-wide body I cowered within. Never thought to move. Kept rebuilding the same ravaged landscape into something salvageable until the next cyclone hit. Flies never gave notice before skies darkened and vagrant clouds compressed into thin lips of the horizon. Stood ground as the torsion of organs wrenched themselves into opposing forces of cell migration between malignant or benign, dwelling or scrap metal.

* * * * *

“Got no gust, girl. I look right through a sprinkler of Mom, squalling and nipping at me. Don’t give a shit about a downpour here or there when I can cover myself with the windbreaker of you. Rambling your ass around this district of us with some kind of buoyancy. What the hell is that? If I engulfed myself in the gale of Dad’s lack of air and Mom’s boisterous torment, I’d be an outline of space that once shackled us. Never asked the sun to bruise our skin with its tedium. Got the taste of you swallowing me up, so don’t get all drizzly on me now. I’m hemorrhaging a frenzied lightning that’s toxic with the beat of thunder under my skin.”

* * * *

My mouth wrenched open the same shoddy door that always stuck. Air took on a thick and sinister stillness. The eye of family and friends was steady before each deluge. Why don’t these assholes get out of hurricane alley? Why bleed themselves over this skeletal territory, only to become obliterated year after year? There is something more threatening about a stretch of open terrain with no history, no decay.

My gums had unoccupied spaces. A history, blow by blow, of enduring agitation, the smack of waves upon boulders one listens to day after day without registering, and yet without it there would be an absence of potency.

This man traced the lines of my face with a gun. My neck wedded itself to the contours of his guillotine archway of compressed fingers. Sat in his recliner while groundswells sprayed from his pores. “Come here, baby,” he said. My fists were two restraining orders. Moved towards him. Sunk to my knees. Fingers slid along the sides of my twitching cheeks. Dropped my head into his lap.

“God, baby,” I said. “How could I ever live without you?”

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