One long-haired wheat-headed baby was born with a microburst
in June in a ragtag pad above a storefront on Mass.
The first window crackled apart, a limb flew,
severed an awning, toppled a cross on a country
church south of town, the whole edge
of the state shook and cursed in cacophony
but little hasty prayers went up like campfire sparks
into the inky sky. One woman, her own kind of bolt,
saw through the end of one storm and the life of another. Wheat-
haired babe woke to the rain of glass and mother’s eyes like stars.
— Leah Sewell
The Coop: A Poetry Cooperative 