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Opening the Storm Eye You spin the wheels of your red truck and speak of tornados you've known how they drive through homes and create orphans. I see your girlhood divided by unremarkable years and years where you crouched in the bathtub and prayed to the deep and steady anchor of the plumbing that you would be left alive after house and family had been sucked away. Picking out cherries from a roadside stand unaware of the change in weather, of you behind me. As your lips claim my neck the red relents in my fist. Coins scatter in the fruit as the sky rolls over us. The rain comes in sheets like the wings of netted birds throbbing and falling. While I buy the fruit you wait in your red truck playing the engine. I stumble to meet you drunk on the curve of your mouth, a cardinal on fermented autumn berries. With my tongue I would lick the dust from your eyes, I would offer shelter. Rachel Rose is a poet living in Montreal.
McGill-Queen's University Press
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