Serious Weather
by Sarah Levine

In storms I dream of dresses flying up. Thin girls sucked into the sky. Feet still as apples. The world is so loud. A skirt’s parachute warm with wind. Each breath, thin as rice. The stillness between screams.

In storms I like the window open. For birds to fly through. Try to speak and a spoon bill builds a nest in your throat. Mother says before bed. Mouth a burned down dance hall. Sweet and dumb. I ache for her hands, when they unbutton. I know her fingers. Dirty carrots. Red from too much wind. Worms rolling all over themselves. Baby fugitives. Buttoning my night shirt. A woman’s hands should always be serious.