© Sheryl St. Germain.
Used by permission.
All rights reserved.
Those who have already been destroyed
recognize its signs: the sky
clouds like a glaucous eye,
the wind muscles over whatever
is weak. Waves swell, engorged
with too much of something.
A lashing, a swimming of tongues
through air. Birds disappear.
The smell of ocean in the wrong place,
of something diseased, lost fish.
The sky bellows, darkens, roars
like a drunk.
Those unacquainted with destruction
ask for wind speeds, amount of rainfall,
degree of movement. A plotting,
a computation of the destruction.
For some of us, all seasons are hurricane.
The winds gale up, working us like seed,
moving us like desire.
What lies beyond measurement
is all of beauty and terror.
To understand is to evacuate.
Text prepared by:
- Bruce R. Magee
St. Germain, Sheryl. “Hurricane Season.” Let It Be a Dark Roux. Pittsburg: Autumn House Pr., 2007. © Sheryl St. Germain. Used by permission. All rights reserved.