We might welcome these storms
were they not so like glass
broken, lingering in slivers
lodged in laundry, in the dishes, bits
tacked like proclamations
to the soles of shoes. Wads of insulation
dry in grass, and the elderly
brace their necks to look up, just
to not look down on this day-after
when shingles glide in
on blue skies, when children
drag their bicycles and rollerblades
into the streets and take deep
breaths between screams: Come
out and play. The light won’t last
beyond the sun’s setting. This day
won’t last beyond the sirens
and warning beeps of trucks
moving in reverse, only reverse
as they zigzag routes of fallen trees
to some destination out of the reaches
of their lifts, their ladders, some place
familiar and stinging like a splinter
felt but never seen.
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Carrie Meadows’ poetry has appeared in North American Review, Prairie Schooner, Mid-American Review, and other publications. She lives in Chattanooga, Tennessee with her husband and two children.