Molly Sutton Kiefer


It’s the weak edit of sky, the trained tornadoes
that do it, I am plain and roughened, my eyes peel,
creak, crept, have woven lashes together, broken back,
have become solid blocks of yellowed lingering.
I am nightmared tonight, I am tired of hearing the endless
loop of lullaby, the lop and hop and jiggle and my eyes,
my eyes are swollen still, red puffed and furious
at winking out the light.  I hear cars clasp the slick
pavement, they are going to work, or church, or both--
they are carrying coffee between their thighs, a hot sip
spat under street lamps, a quick jerk, shudder.  The wind
will whip, will pull a well into water, will hear the word go.