Hurricane Season
by Monica Prince
after Rachel McKibbens
It’s in the small moments--
a stray rain drop on the edge
of an afro puff, a line of blood
marking a scar reopened, not fatal,
a quiet river marching toward Hell--
in which you remember
love like a monsoon, like a forecast
calling for devastation. You have been
warned every day since the light
broke you open, and to no one’s surprise,
you did not evacuate, did not
board up your windows or even
fill the closets with water and tuna.
You always stay, convinced
you know better than God.
than the rupturing seams of clouds
and slick backhands of lovers.
The first time is never the last time,
foolish heart of spider wire,
misplaced trust and golden naivety.
Name every storm after the officer
who takes down your statement
but never files charges. Tattoo
each moniker on the remodeled bone
once the beating sheets lighten
against the side of the house
you call body. One morning, you
will say enough, ripen like overstuffed
grape, poison the smiles of any
possible love, call it protection.
One day, you will trade this recurring
season in a country you believed
was your inheritance for a new planet,
cleansed not by rain but fire, still
burning, the smoke a song in your lungs.
It’s in the small moments--
a stray rain drop on the edge
of an afro puff, a line of blood
marking a scar reopened, not fatal,
a quiet river marching toward Hell--
in which you remember
love like a monsoon, like a forecast
calling for devastation. You have been
warned every day since the light
broke you open, and to no one’s surprise,
you did not evacuate, did not
board up your windows or even
fill the closets with water and tuna.
You always stay, convinced
you know better than God.
than the rupturing seams of clouds
and slick backhands of lovers.
The first time is never the last time,
foolish heart of spider wire,
misplaced trust and golden naivety.
Name every storm after the officer
who takes down your statement
but never files charges. Tattoo
each moniker on the remodeled bone
once the beating sheets lighten
against the side of the house
you call body. One morning, you
will say enough, ripen like overstuffed
grape, poison the smiles of any
possible love, call it protection.
One day, you will trade this recurring
season in a country you believed
was your inheritance for a new planet,
cleansed not by rain but fire, still
burning, the smoke a song in your lungs.
Photo by Torsten Dederichs on Unsplash
Monica Prince teaches activist and performance writing and serves as Director of Africana Studies at Susquehanna University in Pennsylvania. She is the author of Roadmap: A Choreopoem (SFWP, 2023), How to Exterminate the Black Woman: A Choreopoem (PANK, 2020), Instructions for Temporary Survival (Red Mountain Press, 2019), Letters from the Other Woman (Grey Book Press, 2018), and the co-author of the suffrage play, Pageant of Agitating Women, with Anna Andes. Prince writes, teaches, and performs choreopoems across the nation, and you can learn more at her website: www.monicaprince.com
A 2024 Pushcart Prize nominee, Monica's poem can be found in Issue 27 of Glassworks.
A 2024 Pushcart Prize nominee, Monica's poem can be found in Issue 27 of Glassworks.
