Emmy Newman

If 

I know morning fog

has rolled in over the island 

without opening my eyes.

The fog horns of the ferry boats

lowing somewhere off the shore,

culling the dreams of airplanes,

shotguns, and long roads 

from my sleep.

Outside the kitchen, the fog erases 

everything beyond the eucalyptus tree,

directing me to pause

as each pebbly layer plays 

at lifting. If the sun 

breaks in it will be the same green hills

that rose and fell yesterday,

the same pucker 

of land lingering 

at the tree line. The air will

smell softly of cows

and things that are alive. 

The blue wine bottle 

with the dead wasp wedged 

in its neck will be slick

with grimy light 

and we will all notice. Make small 

tongue sounds over breakfast, 

remark that it must surely be

the most bluely blue

we have ever seen.

Twister

1996

This one turns around.

Looks back. 

Gets in her truck and drives straight

for the windknit funnel cloud walls. 

The cornfield parts on autopilot.

The sky greens. 

Close to the end, 

their bodies change relationship

to the field, swinging out

like the tongues of bells

swaying in luxurious, self-satisfied

pealing. 

The eye of the storm slips over their forms.

Wind kicks back in

before we realize how long

we have been holding the stillness

in our ribs, splitting the hope of silence 

with another hundred clouds already gathering.