Tornado Child

For Rosalie Richardson

I am a tornado child.

I come like a swirl of black and darken up your day;

I whip it all into my womb, lift you and your things,

carry you to where you've never been, and maybe,

if I feel good, I might bring you back, all warm and scared,

heart humming wild like a bird after early sudden flight.

I am a tornado child.

I tremble at the elements. When thunder rolls my womb

trembles, remembering the tweak of contractions

that tightened to a wail when my mother pushed me out

into the black of a tornado night.

I am a tornado child,

you can tell us from far, by the crazy of our hair;

couldn't tame it if we tried. Even now I tie a bandanna

to silence the din of anarchy in these coir-thick plaits.

I am a tornado child

born in the whirl of clouds; the center crumbled,

then I came. My lovers know the blast of my chaotic giving;

they tremble at the whip of my supple thighs;

you cross me at your peril, I swallow light

when the warm of anger lashes me into a spin,

the pine trees bend to me swept in my gyrations.

I am a tornado child.

When the spirit takes my head, I hurtle into the vacuum

of white sheets billowing and paint a swirl of color,

streaked with my many songs.

Source: Midland (Ohio University Press, 2001)