My Personal Tornado
by Jeff Santosuosso

Oddly leaflike,
out of the airplane I fell,
I’ve never known such a lack
of control.
It’s not the gasping for breath
or the swirling earth beneath me.
It isn’t the storming rush of wind
through my ears, my own personal tornado.

It’s the flipping, the flailing,
the twisting,
the opposite of the womb.
Oh Mother! Where are you?
Wrap me, Mother. Swaddle me.
I am falling.

The Earth pierces my spine,
protrudes through my chest.
I become fixed,
impaled on the Continental Divide,
the clear bright sky isolates me from
the sun
so far away
like my mother.
I land face up on the Continental Divide,
staring into eye of my own personal hurricane
which lays above me, the stillness
of the womb.

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