by Jessica Piazza
Wind, I want to spin headlong alongside
you, I do. Insects assault into somersaults
over the ocean, still certain of your
benevolence. But you might die down
and I might accidentally sleep a thousand
inanimate days. Wind, you switch sides
in no-win wars, while stack upon stack
of burlap sacks nap like children on factory floors.
The equipment, elephantine and settling,
snores. This inertia is more than a blanket
thrown over the horror of having
and wanting. More than distend
and stretch. It’s glide and buffer, watching
from shelter, deciding against a decision.
Wind, there are two kinds of women.
It’s a tenuous science to sway between
wonder and nothing. Benevolent wind.
Lashing wind. Traitorous trade, you harass
the multihued triangles strung like teeth
on a storefront’s wire line. Grand opening
morning with flaps and with flutters.
Wind, in this bluster I discover
there are also two kinds of lovers:
and I’m not the type who takes cover.
*Photo courtesy Amancay Maahs.