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,
I dive, tumble, then soar on my gritty, muscular wind.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 20, Issue 3.
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