Your house was built in twenty-four,
brought down by tornado in twenty-five,
rebuilt the same year. Since then, quiet.
Relative quiet.
A black dog lives in the alleyway,
sniffing the burning barrels, scratching
at gravel. Without permission, wasps build
a nest in your garage.
A mile away, wasted by heat, the Big Muddy
runs aground on its way to the Mississippi.
Days of hundred degrees, darkness
still as anticipation. We ride
a slow current of pool
filter and whiskey on ice.
We listen to tornado warnings,
waiting to hear our county.
Touch skin only under water.
At midnight the black dog growls
and the sky splits into daylight.
The rain is a collapsing house.
Your body, relative quiet.