MAGA Cannot Hear the Tornado Sirens

MAGA cannot hear the tornado sirens ┃ Alisha Yin

it’s never about the sirens as they cry for your death,

wail in the night, it’s not the waiting when the

wind pauses behind pear tree shadows,

not the soft pulse as branches scratch in paint.

place, your hands over your neck, bend fetal,

to the curve of the drywall, pray as power

flickers, as the pitter patter of storm clouds

only grow outside your window and know it is your making.

there is thick honey running down the side

of the shingles on the roof, there is ghastly peeled

citrus odors popping as the chimney flies into the

twister, basement ringing, and ringing

while still people, women in red hats lick the poisoned honey

and men wrap white blue and red flags around their torsos while

snapping pear branches with bare hands

bending knots of correlation to their communication to their

refusal to listen and so as the wind howls

there is only one answer to tell them.

hear the wailing, the waiting, the pitter patter

and think.