My son scans the sky for supercell storms
the way I once watched ladders of light for signs
of the Rapture. He waits for squall lines to form,
cumulonimbus clouds to grow, decay, violent
twists of air to tear the earth apart. He wants to
capture wall clouds on camera, chase tornadoes
like a small child tied to a kite, see sliced-through
schools, demolished malls, leveled libraries. Rows
of stamped flat bungalows, tipped over telephone
poles. Attracted to the aftermath, debris delights
him like birthdays once did, enchanted by blown
out windows, extinguished cities. Instability excites,
carnage charms. I lived in terror of sudden skyjack, driven
to Heaven. Accident’s child loves fact, needs nothing forgiven.
