By Michael H. Brownstein
When the great train exploded from the heavens
like huge bombs of gray napalm, the lights did not flicker,
they went out, everything deep in a cave black.
The rains came harder, the wind yelling, trees hysterical,
and then—nothing—no noise, no whisper, not even a sigh.
The trees realigned themselves, only a tickling rain,
a silence almost human—and my wife breaks the moment:
It’s here. Get to the basement. It’s here. It’s here.
I’m on the first floor, she’s on the second. No, I yell back,
I’m coming for you, but everything so dark, no real warning,
neither of us can find a safe place. (Didn’t the weatherman
a few hours earlier tell us the storms were all north of us?)
Everywhere the rancor of tornado sirens, loud and clear,
weaving their currents into the roar of the train racing too close.
I sat with the dogs, she in a stairwell away from glass,
and we waited until the wind of a familiar storm came back,
the rain louder, the train faraway. I went upstairs,
she’s safe, I’m safe, the dogs safe, a lack of sirens.
Maybe it was nothing, I tell her and for a long time
past midnight we sit on our bed holding hands.
At one AM the world erupted into flashing lights,
earnest sirens, and that is when we knew it was not.
| Copyright © 2019 by Michael H. Brownstein Michael H. Brownstein’s latest volume of poetry, A Slipknot Into Somewhere Else, was published by Cholla Needles Press in 2018. |
Welcome aboard the Morris express. Loved you poem but I lean to the dark side, anyway.
ReplyDeleteThanks for your poetry contribution. I look forward to reading more of your work!
ReplyDeleteA truly chilling and poetic description. I've heard that they sound like a train, but you bring it to desperate, frightening life. Great into, and welcome.
ReplyDeleteSorry, great "intro", Michael, and I would like to add that your poem puts the reader right IN that house, with the storm raging outside, the cardinal sign of quality art. I would say I couldn't imagine your desperation at being separated from your wife, but I didn't have to. You made me FEEL it. Good stuff.
ReplyDeleteYou really capture the life-and-death intensity of the surprise storm. Your poem carried me along on an express train of emotion, of what-next, and the relief of reaching that resting point of reunion was palpable. A wild ride, absoluting riveting.
ReplyDeleteI'm glad to hear the welcoming voices to your first contribution to our blog. I hope you enjoy being here as much as I'm sure we will all enjoy your wonderful poetry. Who knows, you might even sell a couple books.
ReplyDeleteThis was like watching a suspenseful movie. Good Job
ReplyDeleteMichael, I returned to this page today for a second reading of your poem. After preparing my final Father's Art post on Moristotle (to be published later in August), my thoughts returned to the tornado that ravaged part of my childhood neighborhood on March 31 of this year. Your poem takes on new meaning for me now, after hearing Mom and Dad's account of their experience, the sensory details of which parallel a lot of what you describe. While searching for this post, I found another one you made about the tornado in Jefferson City, and learned that it missed your house by about 300 yards, which is about how much it missed my parents' home. Thanks for all of the poetry you've shared on this blog.
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