Aftermath

I loved  you    how  only a    Midwestern
girl    would    love a tornado warning.
I didn’t    want the      sunshine; I
wanted      wild, whirling,
in-the-moment  April

 

 

tempests, and    as  the sirens howled,
I ignored    them and kept on  playing
in the damn rain  like a muddy child  who
was  taught  that      the wind 
couldn’t            touch

 

 

the        valley, and    that 
lighting  never   
struck the same  place
twice. But  your   
overcast    eyes        tilted
my neck, and 

 

 

static  leaped  from
jawline    to collarbone.
And      when  you
finally passed over,
I learned that    the
May    flowers
weren’t
addressed to me,

 

 

and the    cruel
anatomy
of the    bolt-burnt 
tree in my
peripheral

 

 

was a part
of a new
landscape
I had
to
learn. 

This poem is about: 
Me

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