For Women Who Use Storms

Storms are not metaphors. You can’t conquer the bolt, not
the thunder, the masculine desire. Stop riding the lightning
instead, or blow your candles out so that darkness
hides your true self. The music will not cover the years.
Your withered hands cannot block the storm, can’t
kill the lying or the prayers. You can’t get clean by
throwing one small human body into rocky crag. When
you stop being pained by storms coming in over
the harbour, rain will come – no dance or feather will
cure the wet garden, or plant the root deeper.
If there is weather, there is weather. Women as
wanton witches trying to fight the natural predicament.
Let him blow through the pantry, rip open the last
window, so that when the storm comes, you
will be ready. You will be waiting.