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Tornado Child
for Rosalie Richardson
By Kwame Dawes I am
a tornado child
I
come like a swirl of black
and
darken up your day:
I
whip it all into my womb,
lift
you and your things,
carry you to where you've never been
and
maybe, if I feel good,
I
might bring you back,
all
warm and scared,
heart humming wild like a bird
after early sudden flight.
I am
a tornado child.
I
tremble at the elements.
When
thunder rolls
my
mother-womb trembles,
remembering the tweak of
contractions
that
tightened to a wail
when
my mother pushed me out
into the black of tornado night.
I am
a tornado child,
you
can tell us from far,
by
the crazy of our hair;
couldn't tame it if I tried.
Even
now I tie a bandanna
to
silence the din of anarchy
in these coir-thick plaits
I am
a tornado child,
born
in the whirl of clouds;
the
centre crumbled,
then
I came. my lovers
know
the blast
of
my chaotic giving;
they
tremble at the whip
of
my supple thighs;
tornado child, you cross me
at
your peril, I cling to light
when
the warm of anger
lashes me into a spin,
the
pine trees bend to me
swept in my gyrations.
I am
a tornado child.
When
the spirit takes my head,
I
hurtle into the vacuum
of
white sheets billowing
and
paint a swirl of colour,
streaked with my many songs.
from
Wisteria, Twilight Songs from the Swamp Country |
