Karen Craigo

Tornado Practice, Washington Elementary

Remember, in the hallway, your body
curved into empty parentheses. Inside that space
made for secrets you’d urge the wind, Come.
Eyes closed, blood coursing to your ears,
you believed you turned to storm.
You realize now you didn’t know the language—
a single syllable that means hunger,
and goes on and on. You’ve heard it
on the softest of days, grieving the trees.

In Woodward, Oklahoma, there is a grave
for “Unidentified Girl.” You’ve seen a picture.
The sky, it is said, ate her name.

Do not confuse this with fire.
You close the window for fire, then stand outside
in the fireglow. A woman touches your head
and you are counted, among the safe.

But still you picture yourself against sky, stretched
and twisting with need. Haven’t you run circles
like a dog on a peg, and plucked entire houses
from the space inside a fence?

You’ve learned you are only a hole, raging.