Words for a Friend

storm

The clouds are angry again.

I can tell by the way they flush, darken, curl and cross
a sky of apathetic blue,
painting it silver, gold, copper.

Tonight, the skies sing with light
and flash with sharp claps
that rattle the glass
and scatter the birds.

Newscast dolls recite recite recite
(mommy mommy, is today the day we die?)
the damage, the solution, the prevention
(no, sweetie. it's just a little wind.)
of a storm swirling, singing screams across the state.

It's coming for us,

(mommy mommy, why's the TV blaring?)

coming for me.

(mommy mommy, why're we going to your closet?)

Several speakers dance across the screen,
screaming through the storm
or simpering before green screens;
each lays baskets of opinion at my feet.

The room holds its breath;
my hand wavers over the options.
"Stay in front of the psychedelic screen,"
mutters father dearest.
"Scuttle into the closet,"
murmurs mother darling.

Whirling storms of whispers assault my thoughts,
parental advice
friendly antidotes
stereotypes and sentiments.

(mommy mommy, can't we watch the sky?)

The walls rumble impatiently;
my decision cannot dawdle.

(no, sweetie. you're safer in the closet.)

Glancing at the windows bare,
memory making love to the charcoal grey heavens,
the advice of a mother absent
lulls me into closets crammed
with memory.

Sirens beckon me away,
beg me to witness the sorrow of the clouds,
the rage of nature;
however, I do not abandon my post,

not even when texts trample sirens and solitude.

Chiming, blurbs and barbs zing
across screens and streets;
communication dry.

Insults fly at the weeping clouds,
but I can't participate.
Storms make them sad;
storms ruin rigid schedules.

It's depressing, I guess;
of course, so is a blue without depth,
without texture and rumbles and grumbles.
I believe
sadness makes it radiant.

I long for my stormy sky.

Sirens falter and fade;
"the storm seems to be receding..."
(mommy mommy, is it over?)
"...moving north..."
(mommy mommy, can I see the sky?)
"...worst past, residents can begin-"
I trip over thoughts and toys

and meet the quiet sky,

soft and sure,

as though it never happened.

The alarm blares then beeps,
footsteps rise and fall.
Chlorine sharpens the air;
I inhale sharply, slowly.

"The storm's done."

"I know."

The night slips into normality,
but I can't stop wishing
I'd stared at the emotional heavens
as they fought to return to my side.

I can't stop wishing
I'd dissipated with winds harsh
and earth distorted.