Tuesday, December 31, 2013

Bellystorm



Hammer of Gall
By Kathleen Kimball-Baker

No early detection.
No emergency prep.

Thunder is billowing
north of her equator
and walled air ripples,
full of charge; she closes her
eyes, counts one Mississippi
two Mississippi three
Mississippi FOUR

A sopping mattress leans,
no way out, only through.
Bayous are swollen, they'll spill
She must shelter in place in the
roaring darkness . . . she fastens
her arms around what's anchored
to the floor, cold and white
and she lowers her head,
a bow to the surge

Splinters of hurt cross the
dome of her belly and
everyone and everything
is running around the wet
hair, back of neck, temples,
the place above lips
all sticky with salt water
and her wipers can’t lift
against the deluge. She
thinks this: O God
the flash flood is going
to drown me I just know it
But someone is lifting her
head just above the tide,
an angel, surely an angel
till her throat is raw
till hurt crawls out of the wreckage
like refugees. In this shelter
of tile and slippery porcelain
and hurricane hand dryers,
she slumps, awaiting rescue,
and it comes, and so do
the cuts

The storm has a name that sounds
like a southern belle: biliary dyskinesia
you know, like Frankly Scarlet

Image by psoup

3 comments:

Linda said...

I've never heard it accounted for so poetic. And after the storm, the rainbow, hopefully.Take care!

Elena Sands said...

I can relate. Me barfing in the emergency room was like a tsunami. Ew ew ew. Nice write.

Elena Sands said...

I can relate. Me barfing in the emergency room was like a tsunami. Ew ew ew. Nice write.

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