Tonight's Poet Corner: Our Natural Disaster

Our Natural Disaster
by Belinda Roddie

This is real life. Our bedroom
torn up like Tornado Alley. We've tied
our T-shirts together to make curtains so
our Peeping Tom neighbors can't see us
writhe on the mattress like we've been
possessed by a witch doctor. This is

an illegal fireworks show, and we
are lighting up the white plaster in reds
and blues and pinks and violets. Heaving,
howling, hairless coyotes shrieking at
the full moon outside. We move like

animals, but that's because we are animals,
baring our teeth and contorting our bodies
so that we can hit each other's sweet spots
at just the right moments. One-two-three-four,
five-six-seven-more. More. More. More.
This is real life. This is the B-roll they discard

after the final cut. The footage is raw, but it
catches people's eyes, and that's why we don't
let anyone watch us in our personal cyclone,
our terrific typhoon, our hurricane still lasting
through the night and leaving us wrecked,
wet, hot, and very, very quiet.