One week in May, we wake
each day to sirens.
Branches shaking,
snapped. We aren’t lulled
back to dreams by the wailing,
the rhythmic pelting of hail.
Take shelter, our phones tell us.
We descend to our underground
havens as the heavens seek
an axis around which to wheel.
Clouds the color of slate
steel themselves against
the other, weaponless air.
The wind makes itself a drill bit
spinning over still-green
cornfields, and I wish a religion
would whirl through my brain—
raze my sense that we deserve
the skies turning on us.
Let me find mercy in this scene:
the gods coveting a passageway
from sky to ground—
a funnel-shaped tunnel to pull us
through to another world.
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