Friday, December 28, 2012

Flamingo

Thrashing trees, flashbulb pop of transformers.
The roof rattles and knocks, shingles plucked
and flung to the beleaguered lawn. The occasional crack
as some huge object hits the ground. Tantrum of an angry god,
spirits moaning. The earth is shredded 
by the teeth of the hungry storm, then spat out
We are small creatures shivering in our burrows, 
huddling in our ragged nests.
Shuddering in a hollow log, spirit gnawed to a stump.
Trapped in a drafty space beneath a stone.
The waters rise to flush us from our dens. The lamps flicker.
The TVs blink off. Our phones are dead
but we are shivering and alive.
Water floods our cellars, limbs lash at our attics.
Come morning, it will have passed, and we'll stagger around
the remains of the neighborhood, looking for our
migrated lawn ornaments. The garden gnome found smashed
to colorful chunks in the middle of the driveway. Two blocks over,
the uprooted plastic flamingo discovered flattened
in the gutter. But until then, we wait out the storm,
trembling as the earth is pulled out from under us. 
We are alone. We are devoured.
We are so brutally loved.

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