I can think of worse things.
It’s windy in your head, she says,
but I like the soughing in my mind.
Thoughts blow through me like clouds.
Words loft like plastic bags, swirling
along my shoreline, then settling.
My sister’s having a baby,
I need to buy more vanilla milk,
breeze through me like a samoon.
Does my dead son climb trees in heaven?
The squall in my head
knocks down memory lines,
fractures and uproots grief,
wrenches time from its hinges.
Tranquility is overrated,
stillness weak.
I dive, tumble, then soar on my gritty, muscular wind.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 20, Issue 3.
See all items about Chanel Brenner