The Cool of Her Atlantic Touch

before the storm that top-heavy dredel
of sea salt and bite
before her skirt swung around her knees
the waves slapping our faces drowning our home our spirits

before we saw a tsunami dance on land
we opened our windows lifting listening
the locks as they clacked into place
the squeaking twists of our front and back doors
the screens propped open held by cinderblocks

before she could trot into our lives
forcing herself through the small cracks
of chipped paneling
those ever-present gaped crevices
the ones we knew existed
but never bothered to reinforce

before the storm that mad dash
of organic anger
that flick of undulation fear panic

it’s a reality that hog-ties the neighbors
and while they run around their homes
their footsteps pound
rivering to us through thick air
the music is but a soundtrack
the heavy but delicate murmurs of a horror story
the silent heaves of a chest that will soon stop beating

this mixed with the rough pulls of duck tape
the “savior” of all American storms
gives us comfort as we lie in the middle of our residence
thin eyelids peeled back for the show
tongues numbed with excitement unmoving

and we breathe the fresh air of her encroachment
its soft wetness both preface
and epilog