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.