You ask me to tell
of the storm itself,
not its aftermath,
as if the wind that garroted
the hackberry and wrestled
its thick spine to the ground
could be separated from the dusky
shadow of its wooden carcass,
its sprawled roots exposed
shamelessly in morning sun, the wild
limbs of a fallen god.
You ask me to speak
of the crude roar
of the cyclone that spun
the house like a loose screw
from its foundation,
blew its particles dozens of miles
directionless,
as if its howl can be distinguished
from the cry of the homeless spaniel. Worse,
the moan of the mother missing
the child. Witness the punishment
for snatching what we never
meant to return. That this land deserves
all it demands makes its work
no easier to fathom for the creatures
born too late, who
did not ask to inherit
a depleted kingdom.
Look now across
an ocean rolling
in its usual way. Tell me
it needs anything like rising
heat to kill us. No. Those waves
that birthed us are strong enough
to take back what they gave
if they fear their gift
was given too hastily, was taken—
like the earth’s humble name—in vain.
—
Jo Angela Edwins has published poems in over 100 journals and anthologies including The Hollins Critic, Crosswinds Poetry Journal, and Delta Poetry Review. She is the author of A Dangerous Heaven (2023), Play (2016), and Bitten (forthcoming 2025). She lives in Florence, SC, where she serves as the first poet laureate of the Pee Dee Region.
