Yolanda: A Typhoon
How much our hands are God’s
to be running fingers over braille cities.
We are this hand pushed through our womb.
Weeping with each other’s blood in our eyes.
I dreamed that I slept with the light on.
I was asleep in my mother’s bed because my father was out to sea
and my claim on him was to feel the frets of my death sure to come.
Sweet, small fishing rod. Ears of wind rushing through many jellied trees.
We were on this cardboard earth with its puffing volcanoes
miniature baseball players and horrible winds
scored by musician’s hands.
Stand in the strong ear of this love.
Copyright © 2015 by Sarah Gambito. Used with permission of the author.