WHILWIND

WHIRLWIND

“Though I were right my own mouth

might condemn me.”  Job 9, 20

 

In failing August light, heat ballets, prances

tasseled fields: golden cornstalks turn away.

His six year old daughter, with eyes that comb,

reaches through the Ford’s window; planes her hand.

He smiles, strokes her flying hair. Placid sky

 

splits. Sudden wind plows

blunt, like granite.

Concussive waves wallop;

sound like God stalking Eden.

Cornstalks twist,

rocket;

roots chariot fire.

Ozone chokes.

 

The coiled funnel strikes the field;

a python’s

venomous tongue.

“Oh, God,” he cries out.

Jerks the wheel hard  right.

The car skids,

breaks free

and sails into the streaming ditch.

“Out,” shoving her first, him after,

into the muck.

“For God’s sake, Connie, stay down!”

Covers her body with his.

Terror, like lead shavings under his tongue,

poisons.

He raises his head:

“Fuck you,”

he growls into the maw.

 

The avatar clawing the mud-clogged ditch

laughs,

screws back on itself,

undulates above them.

Daggers

the corn one field over;

slithers up its spout,

stutters away.

 

He raises her up from the grasping muck.

Knows it’s gone, rips the chain and cross from

his neck, “God damn you,” he spits, throwing it

into the empty field, “you do this just for sport.”

Spent, he holds her tight, no longer sure of himself.

 

 

About left0089

Columnist at American News Report. Pain care activist. Poet, memoirist.
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