Summer Storm by Ben Fowlkes
The morning after
we walked my neighborhood to gawk at the destruction.
No electricity in any of the houses, a good excuse to
skip work, this sweltering snow day vibe in late July
and all around us on the street the splintered
torsos of trees or whole trees themselves, older than us
and now ripped out at their roots
like some aggravated god had come through
plucking weeds.
We woke in a fever that morning and
our bodies were still sticky with one another’s sweat
and there was a certain
freedom to the scale and capriciousness of the damage.
Spears of branches punched holes in roofs
or didn’t.
Falling trees crushed cars
or just missed.
Either way there was nothing to be done
but accept it and begin the work
of whatever comes next.
Chainsaws wheezed all over town.
The dry bone snapping
of sticks being picked up and stacked.
Already the air smelled of sawdust and heat.
I had wished for something to happen and
now something had. I was beginning
my life over again
again
and there you were, tucking your hair behind your ear
like you do
as your eyes scanned the pavement ahead
for the broken and the fallen.
Hear Ben Fowlkes recite the poem on the Viewless Wings Poetry Podcast:
Ben Fowlkes is a writer whose work has appeared in Glimmer Train, Best American Short Stories, Fail Better, and elsewhere. He works as a sports writer for Yahoo Sports, and he has previously written for outlets such as USA Today, The Athletic, Sports Illustrated, and others. He holds an MFA in creative writing from the University of Montana. He lives in Missoula, Montana, with his two daughters and one dog.
