Twisters

Women, we do not need
to be tornados
in order to be known.
Causing chaos, being in it
wrecks good roofs and
delays good living.
We don’t need to be
lipsticked hurricanes
sucking at the attentions
of the sighing world.
There is no calm at the centre
only tears and broken plates.

When the silt settles
on a calm shore
life can get back to work.
Seaweed and shark egg pods
freshly left in jungly
salt-streaked lines
leap at the silence hungrily
palms stretch cloudwards
fish bask in sleepy shallows
and the water can release
the breath it held when we
stormed in.

Maybe it’s the ‘man’.
He throws the rope and pulls
one end and sets us spinning.
No – we held the other end
too tightly too, tried
to whirl him in,
thinking one was not
a good enough number
to be. We
assumed we must be huge
and terrifying if we were to be
respected – aren’t the big shots,
the skyscrapers, the
powers that be?
So are the skunks.

This whirling would make
any plant strangle its own stem
and drip out all its juice.
Stop spinning.
There is no disaster that
hasn’t already happened
and been forgotten.
Don’t be the drama;
you’re too big, too good,
too beautiful for that.

Be the ocean
that feels the tug
of a twister
like a kitten
at a mother cat’s
teat.

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