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Poetry

Sister storm, hurling
your javelins too near
our window, don’t you care
if in darkness, we splinter
like a bright waterfall,
if we catch fire
from the sparks you send
flying from the grindstone of night?
You have cracked our sky
with lightning;
you have made glass pitchers
of our bodies and poured
our spirits out.
I walk into the rain.
Your thunder will not stop me;
your whips of rain
won’t send me back.
I defy you. Leave us alone
and tell your ugly cousin, war,
to leave our kids alone.
I write for all of us.
With life I write this.
I write with death.
My house is knit to other houses,
living rooms hooked to front yards,
neighborhood to neighborhood,
hooked to that bright creative engine,
to whose rule, before the sun, moon
and stars, we hold out our hands.


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