Tornadoes

Nine a.m.: 
I woke up first to the itching on my chest and legs, tossed
and turned a while before grabbing hand lotion, smearing giant globs
over the offending spots. Tried to sleep a bit more, couldn't for the
rush of wind in the tree outside, leftover from last night. It's been
a slow, cold spring ,ominous and dark.

I open my eyes to the picture of her I put up last night. Her, sixteen
and so fucking beautiful. Seven years now. She's mine, still. After
everything else. Losing touch, seeing other people, broken hearts,
failed relationships, bad girlfriends and bad boyfriends,
cohabitation. And then friends over the years, the creeping
realization that maybe I'd blown it, missed my shot.  Confessions and
rejections, jealousy and good times, dancing and picnics and dumpster
diving and movies. Sleeping together but never sleeping together,
until finally, one night a kiss in bed and the best relationship
either of us has ever been in?
 
The tree blows, still, outside, hard and violent. I think of cyclones,
the dream I had: the storm coming over the hill, and nowhere to turn
except away, running for any shelter that would have me. That day in
the park, last summer. We'd spent two days together the month before
my ex  would move east for half a bitter year. And when we hugged
goodbye, when I said I couldn't come back to her place, it was fear
that said no, my dogged sense of loyalty, and fidelity. The knowing
too that maybe she could be my shelter, but I wasn't ready to run, not
yet.
 
I told her my dream yesterday, sat listening, patient as she tried to
explain weather patterns, something about temperature and vacuums. The
spinning earth. semantic differences between cyclones and hurricanes. 
Tornadoes.

Charles Imbelli
2008