Addressing the Storm, My Mother

I stand in the middle of Donaldson Street,

fists clenched,

winds of fury already spinning around me.

 

In the distance, warning sirens’ shrill tones are heard.

The tornado already in chaotic revolutions about the house,

spitting torrents of angry words down on me.

 

A change in air pressure fierce upon my eardrums—

rotations increase from E2 to E4,

mercilessly devouring self-esteem,

clothes, books, personal effects strewn about,

lifted and dropped in destructive trails.

 

With defiance to God, to the storm—

with courage or stupidity,

I turn into the turbulence,

and hollar at the storm:

“Mother, Mother, why?”

Whirling, slamming through rooms

she cannot hear my call, see my pain,

feel the water of my tears.

 

Winds blow me down,

toss me to the bed,

flail me about

trying to destroy me in rage,

in chaos, confusion.

I fight against will and force,

crying for help and an end to the violence.

 

In the end,

wind velocity still banging doors,

the storm having had her go at me,

losing momentum and spin, dies down—

passing to smaller parts of the home

becoming mild breezes and calmer weather.

2015 copyright by Katie Pifer available at http://www.witchpetals.wordpress.com

 

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