Home » new poems, Poetry

Names for Storms

By (October 1, 2017) No Comment

I can’t hear myself
for the howling
several dozen states away

the wadding stuffed
under the cap
of the decade.

It’s true:
I can’t see my hand
in front of my face

because it’s clutching
a stone in my left pocket.
An image of a windsock

at once fiercely & feebly
orange. The darkening
palpable. At the first

pelted drops we smell
the charge in the air
the moment

we detect the quiver
in the skin of the dog
at our feet. The backs

of our thighs embossed
a plush pattern of flowers
ganged up on a threadbare

armchair. The bursting in
of glass at each window
successive, percussive.

A silence eeries
between the booms
of the tossed trashcans

in the street. The crack
of a twig-snapped pole.
The fizz of the downed wires.

The television already
lifting its heavy feet.

____
Shanna Compton‘s books include Brink, For Girls & Others, Down Spooky, Gamers, and several chapbooks. A book-length speculative poem called The Hazard Cycle is forthcoming. She is the founder of the Bloof Books collective and works as a freelance writer/editor and book designer.

 

Leave a comment!

Add your comment below, or trackback from your own site. You can also Comments Feed via RSS.

Be nice. Keep it clean. Stay on topic. No spam.

You can use these tags:
<a href="" title=""> <abbr title=""> <acronym title=""> <b> <blockquote cite=""> <cite> <code> <del datetime=""> <em> <i> <q cite=""> <s> <strike> <strong>

This is a Gravatar-enabled weblog. To get your own globally-recognized-avatar, please register at Gravatar.