The Story of a Weathered Woman
Stevie Edwards
In her story all orange skies mean
tornadoes. All windows mean
breakage, spliced skin.
This is why she lives in a basement
storage closet.
She doesn’t believe in putting things
in their places or having places
for things—makes the shock worse
when opposite fronts collide
and scatter the room.
She’s been pilfering pillows
from couches at furniture stores
and house parties for years
to build a fort around the twin-
sized mattress she keeps
on the cement floor.
She’s stopped buying contacts,
nothing worth seeing
that’s not close enough to touch.
She has as much trouble choosing
pictures to hang on her walls
as on her flesh.
She’d like a braille tramp stamp
to tell all hands that uncover it
there is something sacred curving
into the small of her back.
She doesn’t smell of maple syrup
or have a bouncing rubber
womb, but her back bends
nicely into a mixing bowl.
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