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.