138 Pieces (redux)

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…

What I’m Reading:

I walked away,

drifted north, like I do, and came to Canada; but by then I was

a man dressed in a long Soviet coat, wool with a red collar. Better I

would have retreated to the mountains, I thought, or the interior.

— C.S. Giscombe / “Second Dream”