Windowless Place

Before the microburst flattens the earth

in the field outside my aunt’s trailer—

fescue grass leveled against rust-red clay—

my little brother & I watch virga streak

the near sky white. It falls from clouds,

hovering above the ground, vaporizing.

We don’t yet know storm cell seeds are breeding

above the expired, overgrown farm field,

feeding thunderheads. Our mother calls

from the open screen door, repeating the forecast

told to her by the red weather radio

that has watched over us since 1992.

She fears storms building in ozone-

scented air, the sound of heavy rain against

tin roof, lightning striking

dirt. We leave her to watch the clouds

blow into the supersaturated air.

I feel it brushing skin, pulling my T-shirt tight

against my body. My brother

holds my hand loosely; the idea

of protection is enough like safety.

Once when I was young, the wind

picked me up with the gust,

deposited me knee-down on asphalt.

So I tighten my hold.

Our mother’s calls are eaten

by the air. She wants us in the dry

tub, the closet, whatever windowless

place everyone is hiding.

But he has just learned of the water

cycle, wants to see virgae branch

with his own eyes, from nimbostratus

toward fields long ago let loose

to the deer & wild hyacinth.

Tomorrow the town will reach

for something like recovery,

picking branches from broken

car windows. For now, periwinkle

blooms flutter, petals rip

in preparation. My grip presses, nails carve

crescent moons into my brother’s skin.