When the storm came, the giant oak trees all cracked
and fell into the ocean among the dead whales, their roots
reaching like long fingers into the surf. When I say the storm,
I don’t mean a literal storm, but rather the way in which women
put on sweaters to keep out the cold or someone kisses
the dimples on someone else’s thighs to keep the pity at bay,
or how a man fits a whole apple into his mouth in replacement
for a lover. When the storm came, I called a free dating service
and waited until they sent a boy to take me to dinner.
We ate without forks, only spoons since the storm had taken away
half the silverware, scooped egg yolks into our mouths
with our bare fingers. What I mean by the storm is,
sometimes the person you are matched up with
is not the person you end up with. That night, he took me home
to his apartment and crushed cinnamon sticks into the bed
in an effort to cover up the scent of the previous woman.
We ended up comparing bruises instead of navigating
our way inside one another, although I suppose
contrasting wounds is a way of making love too.
When the storm came, it knocked out all the power lines.
Swept homeless women playing cello for spare change
into the sea, knocked cars off bridges, killed a man
who was running through the rain to tell a woman
who was simultaneously running toward him
that he was no longer in love with her, while secretly hoping
that he was still in love with her after all.
After we compared bruises, we found out
they weren’t so different after all.
Then we sat and watched the storm tear his house down
beam by beam, rafter by rafter, around our tangled bodies.
What I mean by the storm is, sometimes wreckage
is like finding yourself, and sometimes wreckage,
like destruction, is a form of creation, so finding yourself
is a form of destruction too.