Katrina wears her hurricane name like it was patterned and pinned just for her, a suit of calm before the storm. She brings the storm like someone born to it, finger-play and a few words of thunder, and down it comes. High tide is nothing. Twentieth floor is child’s play. Cars and crows do the dead man’s float in the river at the end of the world.
In bed, she’s sheets that curl like water and disappear in the grasp of fingers. Who tries to capture that? Everyone, surprisingly. Boys who like their edges roughed with mollusk tongues, girls who remember the sound of their desires in the curve of a conch’s ear.
Water is her weather. Weather is only a danger to other people. She rides it with both hands, great body between her thighs. Down and down is the only way she knows. When land meets her, they shake hands before they get down to the spit and tussle.
Bring the rain and she will trade kisses of sandy lips, stone-moss tongue. That is her only lesson. Don’t forget the blue-black moss in the edges of the hills, the patches that bloom like bruises. Things live there beyond imagining. She knows to shower every one by name.
Image taken with iPhone.
Words written on the train.
Time Taken six sentences of song.
Brain on going home.