tornado watch

we talk about tornadoes at the strip mall.
it is summer & you are afraid of being eaten
by cars. i try to make you promises i cannot keep. 
you reject them & describe in detail 
the way the air feels moments before 
a tornado is born. the tightness of the grey.
birds inside the clouds swallowing one another. 
once when you were young
the wind came & pulled out all your hair.
you hide from the sky. duct tape the windows shut. 
terror has always been a family member to me,
maybe that is why i thought we were in love. 
my father liked to drive into the eyes of storms.
he brought me back bottle caps &
sometimes the leg of a doll. the year before
my grandfather died, the tornado came 
to lyons. followed railroad tracks & threw houses
into the sky. he thought death was coming for him.
today the tornado does not come
just rain & ugly clouds & a man who is driving
somehow without a face. i am realizing there are
parts of you i am afraid of. the knives
you talk to. the framed picture of a tornado 
on your dresser. for the first time, i do not
spend the night. i drive home & i keep thinking
i see tornadoes behind me. i call you twice
& you do not pick up. i am convinced we are
all going to be thrown houses. funny how fear
is a place of meeting or departure. the tornadoes
never catch me & neither do you. at home
at the apartment without doors, i sit
& watch the rain jump rope in the street.