by Dorsía Smith Silva


The dwelling fuel circles of fear come suddenly, even 

though there is nothing but sweeps of blue-sky veils 

and intersections of strolling sunshine. You admit that 

you feel foolish, denying yourself a place among summer, 

climbing past Hurricane María like detaching yourself 

from suspended parachutes. But far down, there’s a wind 

that haunts, a pull against the locked windows, an unhinged 

eruption against the doors. You want to shove everything 

down your throat and water down the lopsided ending: blackouts 

for months that coin drownings in places far below the surface, 

bulleting loss into tracks which hurricanes learn to remember.