The Storm Crosses the Threshold

published in Sequoya Review

The love we have together
is like a crippled whirligig
spinning in the dark.
On the threshold, small men
stare at it like it's a
tornado, and they hope
it won't cripple their
trembling houses perched
on the staircase: their fields,
dry and spindly spieders' legs,
will die soon from lack of rain.
Above them, we become Anteros
and watch their worry become
our worry as the tornado grows.
As it begins to climb the stairs
to our bedroom, we hold each other
on the spindly bed, we look for lost
time or lost loves as the storm
crosses the threshold. We close our eyes.
And time falls apart in the dark.