138 Pieces

I wrote this yesterday under the influence of twin tornadoes

While hiding under the bed with my grandmother and dog

I planned a funeral as mattresses, pans and medicines strafed the air

I saw my brother’s arm impaled on a jagged rafter

The grey-green sky draped like humid laundry above

I heard telephone poles snap in succession like cannon fire

Fred, from next door, called for Annie as he flew by among the shingles and sharp detritus

A dishwasher smashed into my one remaining bedroom wall

Splintered it in 138 pieces, and disappeared into that toothy vortex…

“… history proved that epidemics have a way of recrudescing when least expected.”
— Albert Camus, The Plague