We used to crouch in the hallway during hurricanes. Now we lounge in the living room and respond to text messages: Yes, we are okay. No, we are not worried. From the couch, we listen to frogs ramp up as the wind dies down, and we no longer jump at the grunt of a loose window when a 119-mile-an-hour gust whips around or flinch when a band of calm is punctured by the bang of a transformer giving out. We register the small silence when the A/C stops before a chorus of generators rev like stubborn cars around the neighborhood. Phones act as flashlights. Bedtime’s at dusk—electricity is overrated. As long as we have tortillas and nuts, we can let lettuce liquify in the tepid fridge, brew coffee overnight in tap water and wait. These days we’ve seen chaos from lots of angles, know which shelf to place it on while we figure out a fiddle tune. We’re used to staying put while squalls twist the treetops, and between the widening coils of storm we breathe air sweetened by the absence of disaster.
Sarah Carleton writes poetry, edits fiction, plays the banjo, and knits obsessively in Tampa, Florida. Her poems have appeared in numerous publications, including Nimrod, Tar River Poetry, Cider Press Review, The Wild Word, Valparaiso, Crab Orchard Review, As It Ought to Be, and New Ohio Review. Sarah’s poems have received nominations for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Her first collection, Notes from the Girl Cave, was published in 2020 by Kelsay Books.
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Carleton makes the extraordinary ordinary in an extraordinary way.
I know this poem. They are not my words but they are my feelings. I live on the north coast of Oregon .... we have gales. I named my old Victorian house built in 1903 "Shiver Me Timbers." :)