Naming storms and pouring rain water into raisin bran.

If I called the dark-bellied clouds "brother" 
would he rain
gentle like a shaker of oregano rested the on
the grease-veil counter of a pizzeria
named after someone's dead father--
Mario, Maggiano, Maria, and Sebastian 
tossing pizza dough like Saturn rings--
like galaxy-- like shadow puppets
from God's fingers when he gets bored
at night and dreams us into doughy bodies.
Would he meet me under the porch and
flicker the lights in the living room like
an unexpected sibling-- my fourth 
brother-- the one who God never
dreamed into a body.

If I called this storm mother would she
sleet like snow-cone soup in August
slurped from my elbows 
and a wilting cone that crumpled
like the lips of tulips in the heat--
we're kissing each other goodbyes--
She would change my blue raspberry
stained shirt and call me darling
call me honey-- call me backseat 
navigation-- call me naked 
like only three-year olds know how to be.
Tell me we wear white to remember what
we have eaten.

If I call this storm cousin
would he leave with only goosebumps
and the ominous wind meant for someone 
else-- the breath on our necks
as if we were the spines of
old books-- he feels alien signature 
on a birthday card
where he forgets that I spell
Sarah with and 'h'-- the 'h' is where
I hid my fears of rooms without
candles and losing power-- the 'h' is
where I plug in my night lights.  

If I call this gale 'grandfather'
so he would decorate the sky in hail
shaped like jelly beans and fruit snacks
fallen from the top of the fridge that
was also heaven.
Call it 'uncle' like sun shower
like holy water batons-- like
peanut- M & Ms and dragons 
Call it 'father' like the loose
soil the morning after it rains--
the type that eats your shoes 
and settles like raisin bran mush
incomplete with out its raisins 
for eyes-- only bran and milk
blending the flakes into the soil--
soil where we bury the toads
like tulip bulbs-- kiss
each one to check for brothers
and princes

But we don't just call a storm--like
we can't call a body without God dreaming
in dough and sauce and tossing us like
Saturn rings like Mario and Sebastian-- peeling open our mouths like
dehydrated flower lips-- barefoot with
our shoes still in the raisin bran--
these dough bodies all slick from the rain--
these birthday cards that are supposed
to remember our we're all spelled with silent
'h's hiding something somewhere-- where do 
you hide your fear of the dark?

-- but write my name
in peanut M&Ms-- this cloud has a surname--
call it by it's title-- it's called "Jessica"
It's called "Sandy" or "Irene" 
it is not a member of your family
and it doesn't even send you birthday cards.
It doesn't know what your hands feel like in the
summer when you paint your skin in blue-
raspberry--

Stand on the porch and wait for it
cup it in the your palms and tell
it that it is home-- it was meant for
this porch and for this body and for
this night-- tell it that your body
is dough anyway-- that you are both
bodies of mostly water and fragments 
that once made up Saturn's rings
-- formed out of the sleepless nights of
a God of shadow puppets 
and stained white shirts.