Mother Weather

If your mother is lightning,
if the warm engine of her heart
is bittered by the chill of words on her breath,
if the cumulus tragedy of her
lashes a blaze of startle-streaked nights
that shock you blind,

be silent in the burnt canyon of your body.
Feel the universe rush its oceanself
to fill your cloven chest, wash clean
your sooted bones. Wait
for the crash of abundance.