it’s hurricane season again by Cress Wallwalker
Sticky raspberry soda bloodstains stuck to white
sheets will come out just fine in the wash, you say.
But we don’t have time to wash away our sins now.
Instead, I get a few splinters when I help you board up
our windows, and you let me hold the hammer so
I can feel like I’ve done something. We tie up lawn chairs,
stockpile sandbags, and store our chalices up high.
The marble countertop is a barren wasteland of
sugar packets, tangled dog leashes, my graded tests
with smiley face stickers tacked to the front. I can’t
zip my suitcase all the way, but I can take a video
of the house before we leave. Just in case. Nothing
here is holy until you anoint your leather-bound bible
with a chapped-lip kiss. Maybe it’ll be salvation,
since you seem to think so, and you’re never ever
wrong, Dad. We might not come back to a house, you
say and whisper a half-memorized our father to the
deaf bible. It’s a long car ride, busier roads than normal at
a ten P.M. held between my lips like a breath untaken,
just like the half-melted eucharist wafers I spat out in
the church sink. the hurricane is to baptize our mortal coast,
but I know we will not be born anew. all the apostles remain,
unlike god. we cannot be betrayed. I need to make a
confession. No, I don’t want to be resurrected in the eye
of the storm. I want the infernal cyclone to swallow my bare
bones, tear up splinters from church pews, and i want houses
to be ripped from the ground, to swallow cotton candy insulation,
guzzle the last gasoline in town, close down storefronts, down
electricity lines like flaming swords. Except
when we unlock the chipped-paint door, the roof still stands
and no water seeped through. The garage opens while our
generator starts to hum. Still, the washing machines were broken.
You held my hand as we stepped inside. Squeezed tighter when
we saw fences blown to bits. Raspberry soda bloodstains remain.