Meteorology

Who could have predicted this season?

No computer model nor NOAA scientist sounded the sirens

telling us of the storm cells in your body.

Had I an early warning system,

radar that showed me the fatal confluence

of the incoming front,

I would have built a tornado-proof box

from bone. 

Sinew. 

Wire.

I would have sheltered you until

the gale passed.

I would have wrestled the wind itself

until the eye of the hurricane swerved and you were not drowned.

I could do nothing.

The storm ravaged you.

No weather report warned us.

There was no duck and cover

only corrosion and pain.

I am still here, walking

through the wreckage. 

I hold waterlogged photos

and torn notes

the remains of our life after

the tempest swept through and tore you

away.

In the aftermath, no green, wet smell of possible regrowth.

I struggle to weather

the widow’s storm season.

(c) Laura Packer
Please do not steal.
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(c)2018 Laura S. Packer