A poem from 1992

[marydell]

Twister

I've learned at last to notice sirens.
We always had tornadoes,
but the sirens only sounded
during pointless weekly tests
which never had the sound of fear.
When danger came, we always knew,
the crackling breathy silence
would be our only warning.
Then we knew to be afraid
of the cold and warm air meeting;
knew to hide
in the basement
under chairs or ping-pong tables
waiting to be lifted,
twisted, impossibly away.

This time all we hear is sirens
scream above the television
drown the thunder out
us in houses run for basements
and wonder about you
high up in your high building
where your open hallway shakes;
Cover your head when you feel
the windows blow across you,
your life in shards before your eyes.
Blown about, twisted, the breath
torn from your chest
the insane wind caresses you
spins and clutches at you
carries you away.

Us who hid with better luck
can wander now, survey the carnage
marvel at the greeny sky
the limbless trees, the mud
or lie alone in basements
clutching breathless at cold floors
looking up through ghosts of houses,
of chairs and ping-pong tables
lifted up, stolen
impossibly away.

---------------------

My dear friend Susan Clements and her boyfriend Steven Molen died on April 23, 1992, in Bloomington, Indiana. They were shot by her ex-boyfriend in the hallway of her dorm. (The tribute I wrote last year is linked below) Susan and I grew up together in northern Indiana and ended up being classmates in graduate school. I still think about her all the time, particularly in the spring.

Remembering Susan Clements