Tornado Berlioz

Sirens yowl from the main campus
Rattle my windows
Cindy watches the television in the
Basement where we camp, and
When Spencer asks a question she
Hushes him with a hiss.

They will wait out the tornadoes
For maybe two or three hours
Before they go to bed. I will sleep
In my hallway with the dog
Unwillingly smooshed in the
Crook of my arm.

In Alabama I know already
Houses were flattened
People were sucked out of windows
And tossed like frisbees into the wind.

I'm not worried.
Maybe I should be, but I'm not worried.
Instead all I can think about
Is Aunt Sylvia, the tiny television perched on
Her knees, and no color in her face.
She watched the footage they aired and re-aired.

We were safe in Baton Rouge,
Crowded, but safe. But the thing is, nobody knew.
We waited to know how high the black
Mold would creep, when we could go home.
In the thick, thick air for weeks
My Aunt Sylvia watched the tiny television
Come in and out of static, and if anybody
Talked too loud she would hush them with a hiss,
Completely unable to stop waiting and listening.

The weatherman says we are in the clear
A mere four hours later,
Not even long enough to give it a proper name.
So I name that time in the basement
With the symphony of hail on the roof way above us
And the wide television and Cindy's hiss
And the vestiges of Aunt Sylvia and static

All this I have named Tornado Berlioz.
He's a palimpsest of that violent woman,
Who took her time coming and outstayed her
Welcome, who left bruises blooming on
Our walls. Bridging six years, Berlioz
And Katrina do a two-step through
Birmingham and Johnson County and
Through my mind again.