—MAYBE WE JUST STOPPED TRYING

 

 

When We Were Fourteen We Fought a Cyclone

 

The storm is a deranged thug 

     slamming and kicking 

the treehouse we’re in 

     a bottle of clear spent between us

everything shaken and unsteady 

     everything gray-black below 

the bruise of an outage 

     blinking more darkness 

wind shredding cedars and oaks 

     jostling the husks of rusted cars 

and never-run pickups that 

     dot the trailer lot like acne scars

every weak-boned fence collapsing 

     and spit out like a garbled mouth 

full of shattered teeth while

     a dog goes flying into the swirl 

followed by a spice rack TV motorcycle 

     bike anchor and someone’s grandma

If we weren’t brothers 

     it’d be enough to stop us

If our father hadn’t loved him wrong 

     we’d have no need to create 

our own kind of carnage