"Tornado Chasing”

My Pennsylvania hills keep the air too still for these fibers, twisting across the cornfield miles, down from the greater rope choking the sun. Father and son, these cords, raining over their empire of dust. The dust makes them great and gray.


We came to Tulsa to watch the sky rip but we never expected the pieces would fall. Hail tries to break the ground, hunting more dust for the empire. A pine tree drills into the road crossing ours. Freight trains are screaming—tomorrow we’ll be deaf.


We think only of the sky, the orgasmic horror of the sky. But the houses—they don’t run, and you expect them to. You want a house to run when the father turns overhead and the son twists toward it.  No legs sprout. The house disappears and we—


We catch it all on camera. Boards crack; gas lines rupture.


We cheer.


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