Twister

The cat wants in dark spiraling clouds stretch to grab at our throats, the cat has made a fort of its spring-loaded corkscrew body. There is no distance now, just this on-rushing rumbling a sign that we have mislaid our past in this brick-walled moment. They say when it tracks us down it sounds like a train, the heart ducks below its own pounding, thoughts become a sensorium of beheaded sensations, ears are left to ring on their own. The term ‘Tornado’ does not cover the many reasons to run blindly or stay hunched in a bunker of reason. Wide-eyes search out nests of kindred heartbeats. Then there is the wait, the explosive ticking of electric moments that shake both bones and faith. You may not know it but your bent body is praying, your mind has become a begging bowl. Then the banshee whoosh and clatter of a near miss. No flying cows cross our eyes just a frigid silence between the loud drip-drop of a spent and broken rain – then hands reaching.