Known already as a kind of weather, it’s unlikely
a hurricane will share my name.
Wind in both of us, a drumming down.
Some time since I considered throwing a car
through a window or twisting train tracks into a swan.
I like a personal calamity, slow wrecking
over years. Until with a sudden whirling around
I find the path razed from my plowing through.
But I was holding violets, I say
to my face-up palms. Heart-line veers off an edge.
Dear girls who grew up to be mothers,
I do not love enough your children. Dear mothers,
be warned, you will one day leave behind a child
something like me. Children, be hurricanes just once.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 21, Issue 2.
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