Poetry: Twister

sky

I know I am not alone in this. Something in my body connects me to the weather.  I know when it will storm. My nerve endings ache and become shocky and electric. I get dizzy and feel leaden; like one of those little glass beaker birds tipped back and forth by the mercury inside. I wish it was a response to love or desire, but it’s just the coming storm.

And I love storms. A favorite memory of mine was driving I-74 near 3 a.m. during a lightning storm.  Jimi Hendrix “All Along the Watchtower” spilled from the FM dial.  I was alone on the road and in love with the night. Absolutely uncaged.

TWISTER

Autumn sun ghosted into sepia twilight hung with curtains of liquid shadow

And I heard the wail, the deep song of sky churning earth

What’s under the dust?

What’s under the clay?

Time to go under, down down to the cellar

Wild with roots that grow and tangle guarding greedy secrets

Violating velvet loam raw under my naked feet

Every cell electric with static desire,

Damp sweetness, revulsion lurking between the

Legs of wooden shelves, harboring unknowns in glass jars.

The darkling of sky and tricks of the light

Sirens clarion call of homeward

Down, down to the root cellar

Where we are told it is safe

Where we all know it is dark

Where it is whispered

What’s under the dust?

What’s under the clay?

On the Underside of the inside of the skin

Travelling with the silk electric charge

Of this storm, I hear you speak my name

And in the voice of the skies, say “my love”

Close so close, skin electric with all the gold that has stayed

Your hand finds the back of my neck commanding lightning in my blood

What’s under the dust? You say.

What’s under your clay, my love?

And I care not where I will awaken

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