for Samantha
Pretend the storm is breaking
through pines, the stone bird-
bath, or that the angry woman
touching your hand to the stove
to warn you—hot—is hail stones,
uprooted mimosa, the tin lid
of a garbage can smashed
into the back door. Let’s push
two chairs together, drape the bedsheet,
make one small room
for us both. Take your favorite blanket,
make tarps of yellow rosebuds, gather
crackers, yarn-mouthed dolls,
pop-up books. Call the fist-sized hole
in the wall hurricane, tornado, natural
distater. Pretent the forecaster
on your purple radio says to take
cover, and we’ll listen to the storm
tear out dishes from cupboards,
crash them to the floor. Do not
be afraid when this house becomes
unhinged; I will hide you
inside my hair. Understand
a woman’s crying is only wind,
a collapsed roof, a splintered board
floating in dark floodwater.