or persistent weather,
or mental gravity,
or cosmetic makeover,
or attic clearing,
or season turning,
Door, window, map?
The whirlwind wouldn’t relent, so I swallowed that twister whole,
And as twisted muscles were wrung out,
spun dry, and stretched on the fence,
my spine split down the middle,
shot down each leg, and out my heels.
My teeth caromed off one another,
until I spit a fountain of polished marbles.
Fingers pretzeled, and toes folded back
to touch my shins, when my ribs collapsed like a waterfall,
Popping my lungs, freeing the tornado,
which threw up stories of dust and detritus
on its way home
Admiring words were always genuine.
The doubtful response was always,
“Thank you for saying that.”
Now, though without an audience,
the words that tip the tounge
rise from the same source,
“Thank you for being that.”