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Krystal Languell

The moment just before disaster—not a siren
but the absence of a siren—when the sky is sick
green or sick yellow and all the muddy dogs are
called generously indoors: did we create this?
In school we drew tornadoes for the thrill
of scribbling. Is the calm before the storm
responsible for storms? Our pipes worked perfectly
until they didn’t anymore; then they seeped under
the lawn where it became evident that planning
had failed or had worn thin. Just one length
of PVC expired and now runoff defies our curbs.
A man works at repair and as jets hit his face, he
flinches—surprise instead of mastery. Water is lost,
gallons and gallons’ worth loving its gush,
the momentum to splash while it can.

Krystal Languell

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