Before the Storm

Before the storm
was the neatness of Spring
the Crabapple tree
young again
starred in its one useful role
and marked the yard's center point
the bluegrass a razor cut jade
hemmed and tucked into concrete cuffs
swingset counted a Haydn waltz


We were born to the prairie and knew
when sirens sliced the yeastless air
the drilled bare feet procession
toward the screen door
corralled by thunder that snapped the cerulean sky
like one of our parent's electric arguments
eruptions that made us skip a few steps down
to the sanctuary of ground


The weatherman blinked back
his arrowed arms like a weathervane
spun into confusion
vortices circled like distant hawks
Somewhere out in East Jesus, Mom chuckled
somewhere outside our metropolis of 130,000
somewhere in the safety of the unknown


In those times we held fast to normal
Dad chased a hairy brown coconut
across the floor with a hammer
Mom with a basket of laundry to fold
as our world unfolded
Perry Como instructed us to find refuge


Don't let the stars get in your eyes
don't let the moon break your heart
don't linger too long in the light of the moon
too many moons could change your mind


Warnings wrapped in a polka
garnished with a post-war victory smile
that made us believe
the roof would always hold


But the time sequestered
and the temporary no-fly zone
over blankets on the basement floor
didn't save us from the storm


Yasmeen Najmi

The Tipping Point

I am only half of you
half of your subcontinent skin
my autumn-stained hair
half your ink and girth


My stories are served to me
on small plates
my stories are only half of yours


The low hum of your words
lifts and tilts in quiet waves
through the savanna of your chest
the steeped air swoons cardamom
and I am running with you
in mud washed streets
your grandmother's fried puri crunches
then fills the mouth in oily plumes
the way my grandmother's surely must have tasted


My stories are the Other castes
that wait outside the temple
shout devotion at stone to be embraced by echo
in the flickering tango of shadows
we enter
fold our bodies and breath into maternal contours
shell cracked to source
rifts in ancient masonry
cull the heat of severance


Fingers of moon slip between
window bars
the arcs of twisted limbs
I imagine that your stories are mine


Yasmeen Najmi