After the Storm
Your dream was this:
you went through a scan
that glowed purple and blue
then (in the daylight hours)
a storm blew through
and took out all your power.
Ripped up by the roots,
tingling with pain
exposed
to the swirl of blue air
it took us all out,
and left wires coiled along the roadside.
We tripped on open suitcases
full of a warmer climate
beach thongs and muumuus
we came back to the dark
the outage map lit up red,
and then there was no map.
The road was a toppled,
clear-cut forest,
a suede green carpet
until chainsaws ripped through
thick logs at the road edge
and we could come out.
But you stayed home
tended the fire
and carried candles to the closet
where you dressed all in red
dirt caked on your face,
clothes mounded in corners.
This is the lesson:
you’re living too much
in your head,
in your purple
lumped throat
when your strength is below.
Shape a heart with your fingers
below your navel
pull the red roots down
out of the air
and plunge them back into the soil
bury them, bury them
so you can stand up
shake the dirt off
and face the sky.
Previously published by Sheila-Na-Gig online, Volume 4.2, Winter 2019.
Leave a comment