The smell of peanut butter on a spoon:
Crunchy Skippy, Creamy Peter Pan.
My candle-centric consciousness
inhales yellow, exhales shadow
puppets. Sweaty ice cubes diet
in my hands. I ruminate
on pecan crumbs and slurp
grape jam. This is my plan

for the hurricane. Not an ounce
of power in the neighborhood,
unless you count nature’s night
on the town. Our mother dances,
dressed in gale winds, nomadic trails

of broken limbs, epileptic sobs.
I write by candle light, squinting
in its yellow flapping breath.
My black cat slaps the wall,
hunting and stalking my writhing
shadow puppets. I got smokes
and bottled water, bananas and honey

mustard, and plenty of toilet paper.
I scatter pinches of sweet cat nip and twisted
newspapers with evacuation prognostications,
string old shoe strings like spider art across
the wicker chairs, around the defunct TV,
and roll the bouncy balls made with bells
inside, clapping and singing classic rock

as my cat gets stoned and plays with nature.
At first light, I rip up the window blind,
flick the lock, and toss the window aside.
It’s a category 2 Christmas. I tear through
the wrapping and whoop at the whopping
storm, gift of destruction. I let it soak

my floor. I don’t care. Show me the power!
I listen by the window to time dragging
its fat bundle of rain drops, to the wind
like an airplane in a tunnel, and relish

the chance to witness earth’s tantrum.
In the shrieks of the breaking trees
I hear a song of rejected submission,
neglected innocence. The liquid
delegate spirit spits and burps
in my face, demanding we return
these gifts we insist on stealing
at our mother’s expense. I exit

my apartment and body, legs
in the lotus position, and beg
the robust spirits of the storm
to see that we are a thieving
people, a planet of pirates. We
mean to harm and strong-arm
any threat to drag us from the dark.

In the astral plane, the raging
spirits understand. They promise
to return now and then, kicking
us further each time from our nest
of ignorance—until we accept
that our repose in the cosmos,
our industrial abuse of our mother
is nearing its end.

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