Tornado

There is no whisper in the wind--

it howls more than Ginsberg,

like a pack leader at a fully-risen moon.

Raindrops turn to sleet and hit

windows in no predictable rhythm,

but like mallets hitting steel marimbas.

We watch as the sky turns green,

turns clouds into circles in the sky

because we were raised here, and we

do not fear the wail of sirens

as they warn of increasing winds.

They go off every time a storm draws near,

so that when the thunder overhead shakes

our foundation, we watch, and, like the boy

who cried wolf, the sirens tell us lies.

So while sparrows huddle in their nests,

I stand in the wind, asking it to sweep

me from my feet, just to feel

that weightlessness, that flight,

until my father sees shingles ripped

from neighbors’ rooftops and knows

that we must take shelter underground.

 

Tomorrow we will pick dead birds

off the ground by a shovel; their home

destroyed by gusts of wind that pulled

garbage from neighbors’ cans, broke

twigs off sturdy oak trees. Unwanted

gifts, useless birthday presents.

And like a wishbone, the tree snapped

in two by the powerful wind and a streak

of lightening searching for a nearby rod.

Their feathers stick up permanently,

as if they are glued and gelled, as if

the birds wear feathery mohawks--

a reminder of the final flash of light

that they will ever see.