Storm Theat, Again
whisk the yokes of hurricane
falls, while the news alarm blares
pressure drops and the animals
pace around the house. The power
flickers and pops,
and I’m folded in the bedroom
closet with my husband and dog
by the portable shoe shelf
that’s survived several cross-
country moves and arguments.
Shirts and dresses pet our heads
and a pointed burgundy pump jabs
my ribcage while I block the entrance
with a piece of West Coast driftwood
before I realize the stick
can be used as a weapon against us.
I’ve heard drunk people survive accidents
because the limberness of their body
absorbs the shock of the impact.
At least I’m well-prepared.