The Teenager Watches the Tornado in Her Rearview

Yesterday, tornado, I lied to my father,

a good man. I told him C. and I were going

to the game, but instead we were in a pickup,

teeth and skin, vinyl–sweating, hollering words

I’ve been told are unholy, but god they felt holy.

We stayed till we turned to salt and ash,

and then drove home, looking just the same.

Later, I found a seatbelt bruise on my hip,

and I stroked it as my blood pulsed

next time, next time, next time.

Now you fill the mirror completely.

All around me, the sky is somewhere

I’ve never been. On the radio, an ad

for Ted’s Tires on 12, the woman’s voice

light like she’s never seen a wicked thing

in her life. The Tercel is rattling

like a tin can tied to a dog’s tail.

I saw that in a movie once. Oh god.

I saw that in a movie. Once. Last night

when I got home my father said, Goodnight,

goodnight, my buffalo gal, and I thought only,

blank with relief, He doesn’t know.