Bad Weather

p
o
e
m
s

So used to drought, the city looked astonished

at the sky & I have to believe that’s why

 

she didn’t see me in the crosswalk. I was

on my way to celebrate another year

 

among my friends, then drowned by laughter

in an ambulance as it raced along

 

toward harbor. I used to fear my body

was a well anyone could toss

 

their wishes into, unbothered surface

pocked with light, so I’d be lying

 

if I said I didn’t love it, the new storm,

minor catastrophe, me

 

in its mute eye. I leave the hospital & can’t look

at anything. My skull wrung, wrong. Blessed din

 

of my solitary making, static song

no one else can hum along.

Cam Awkward-Rich is the author of Sympathetic Little Monster and a doctoral candidate in modern thought and literature at Stanford University.

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Further Reading

 April 16

“‘Explosion without an objective,’ declared Miles Blundell, is politics in its purest form.’”—Thomas. . .