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 Read Bio Author Discusses Poems
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