Category 4

I heard the storm pass
right over my house, he said, I was
in the bathtub, unaware
of sirens and weather
reports, pronouncements of doom
relayed by pretty television
people. I heard someone
crying, I’m sure
of it, crying and flying while I washed
my feet. There’s no basement in this house.
Be safe, I said, be safe and come
back home.

They cut down her tree. Men
with chain saws and instructions and no
knowledge that she breathed and held
the fluttering light of leaves in her
eyes. It was a new
death, I said, a scar on top
of scars on top of ashes and laughter and her
baby feet pushing off
from my thighs to jump higher. She was
always looking up and away
from the faces that watched
her every move, her hands
held out like a tiny
hitchhiker, waiting
for a ride.




About the Poet:
Although she received her MFA in Creative Writing from American University more than 25 years ago, Beth Gordon can best be described as an emerging writer. She is the proud mother of three creative human beings, Matt, Alex and Elise, who fill her world with art and music. Beth resides in St. Louis, Missouri and spends most weekends in Highland, Illinois in the company of fellow writers, musicians, wine drinkers, and two dogs named Izzie and Max.



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