in a southern state (a blue state,
but warm enough to burn cheeks
red)
a home where we’ll name our
hurricanes
like children
watch them go:
Kyle breaks every window on the first floor
Emily smashes the car
the next year Victor floods the basement
a foot and a half of
ocean and rain
and busted pipes
(as long as they don’t break our hearts)
we’ll hang their satellite pinwheels
on the refrigerator
and sigh
they’re only young so long
before they’re gone
taking the basketball,
the cat,
and the
sound from the wind chimes
I’ll be old here
among orange trees, fruit rats, and the smallest
geckos we’ll ever see
darting
under
Spanish moss covered trees
dying like
ballerinas
covered in silver ribbons
pirouetting off a dark stage
gentle and beautiful,
quiet
like sleep
