I’m from the land of ruthless purple skies.

The land sky vacuums always seem to find.

Daddy's boat sails blow away his sadness,

Momma’s cigarettes let her breathe it in.

I’m from the slew in the lake,

where rock skipping is a sport.

Silence is the capital of this land.

So silent you can only hear your thoughts,

but twisters arrive with sounds so loud you can’t hear them anymore.

Skinned knees and bare feet pitter patter in the streets.

Kids would play in the mud before the floods.

When the time came, we returned to our dysfunctions,

made of rotting siding, beer bottles, and divorce papers.

I’m from thunder rumbles and trees that fumble into houses.

Running to neighbors basements to seek shelter from the storms of skies and minds.

Bay leaves from 1997 found in the cabinet of long residing old folks.

Beaded pastel bracelets made in a time of dying.

Meanwhile, the unbiased wind is howling.

The trembling tin roof threatens to rip,

just like my Momma’s lungs and the sails of Daddy’s sinking ship.

We dare to peek our heads out when the hail has settled.

Walking down the gravel road to see who’s made it through the night.

Not a single one of us are filled with the slightest bit of fright.

Casting lines, corn shucking, and bonfires resume,

as helicopters fly to find the wounded.

We pedaled our bikes down the rocky lakeside path.

None of us are shaken by the shocking aftermath.