Tropical Storm
Air smells like mud and fire.
Gray clouds roll in.
I watch in fear and excitement
from my bedroom window.
My mother's downstairs gathering candles.
My three sisters grapple with calm
and then take on panic.
A dead father is the only one
who does not lose himself in this.
I don't know the word primal as yet.
But first streak of lightning
and the bulbs flicker.
And then comes a distant rumble
like the cannons of an army -
weather is not merely closing in,
it's on the march.
The next electric bolt
tosses a sharp crooked spear.
The clap above is seismic.
Roof rattles, walls shake,
total blackout -
one sister shrieks
for all of us.
More flashes.
The trees see better than we do.
I'm in the black
of the top of the stairs
watching a faint ghost light
ascending toward me.
I hear the noises of my siblings
but they're unrecognizable as words.
We no longer have each other.
We are timid, alone,
surviving by threads.
Another giant streak
severs the wretched sky.
Such a silence follows.
No held breath can compete.
Author: John Grey
Photo: Brian McGowan on Unsplash
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