Tornadoes
A poem of contingency
Ever since I was little, I always figured
a tornado would take me — Kansas born,
named after the vast, lurching horizon
that always threatened
to overturn gravity if you looked up too long.
Always sky-gazing —
looking up, counting clouds, watching the wind.
I trust the earth,
but my namesake — rarely.
She’s too temperamental.
An irrational fear, maybe.
I’m sure the odds are against it —
being in the right place at the wrong time.
My son was born a sky-gazer too.
Face up. Searching.
Always a little worried.
I suppose we’re all jumping over cracks in the sidewalk,
criss-crossing lines of fate.
Tornadoes are tricky like that.
Total annihilation, but only on one side of the street.
We survive until we don’t.
I look to my right, and a house turns to rubble.
A boy, the same age as mine,
has become fatherless.
A widow crumbles in grief.
