Supercell

Years ago, in school,

I swallowed a secret,

but it hasn’t settled well

on my stomach.

I am older now and

I’ve learned what indigestion is,

and now this secret

comes back up:

My heart has always

beat thunderstorms

instead of blood.

I am all whirled up now.

My cheeks are puffed up

and I cough up

craggy tree branches

and uprooted stop signs.

I walk into coffee shops

and all these startled people

look up from their lattes

to hear the shutters

smash in my gusts.

They scramble.

They are trying to stay dry,

trying to keep the rain out

of their cups

but I can’t stop myself —

I jerk umbrellas out

of the wrinkled hands

of old ladies,

I flood parking lots,

I topple garbage cans,

I blow down birdhouses

and scrape them down

the middle of Main Street.

My thunder was quiet once,

just a rumble,

just easy to swallow,

but I am booming now

and I make the windows rattle now.

I make the earth shake now.

I am severe now.

I am a red band on radar.

Tornado siren out my open mouth.

 

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