That late Kansas summer, a tornado
sucked the air out of our lungs,
caved in windows, knocked over a barn,
stole furniture and dishes
from the woman two houses down.
When the air finally sat still,
you poured warm chocolate across my back,
feasted until your tongue resembled tornado dust.
I said I wanted you to hold me.
You rushed inside me instead.
At dawn, as you buttoned your shirt,
leaned over to kiss me,
my body still shaken from the upheaval
and my feet slipping beneath me,
I realized you would always
be my wild place, not my stable ground.
Published in Peshekee River Poetry Journal, Fall 2003