The forecast predicted devastation,
So I scattered sandbags around my house,
Closed the window,
And waited for the deluge.
Fingers gripped my hair and
Yanked me back like a bucking horse,
Unbroken, ready to be taught.
That mouth said, Look,
So I gaped.
His room was freezing,
Bed damp with clay,
Like Andalucía,
The summer everything went red.
He wanted sweet so I said, Yeah,
I’m your baby
I’m your baby I’m your baby,
Please come back to bed.
I was begging for it
This time.
His neck cracked as he tried to unface me,
Signaling a switch of pace,
Trot to canter,
Fast to faster.
Nothing I wanted would happen,
Everything I feared felt good.
Through cataracts,
My body became prize:
Glowing,
Trophy,
About to be shelved.
He could only tell where my hip bone was through a press,
So I sunk my teeth into his flesh,
Buoyed my resentment,
And let the instant drawback,
That hesitant pause
Before the downpour,
Raze my conscience to the ground
Where our clothes lay in disarray.
The weather report called it a tempest,
The worst they’d seen in years.
But I already knew,
Because the streets were so wet
I had to climb back home
on my hands and knees.
