The Town Dreams the Tornado Apologizes
And then we woke up. And our uncles
were still missing, our azaleas yanked

and gone, our dogs dashed against oaks.
But before we woke, we heard you say

in a voice that hummed without words
that you’d gone too far and would hold 

that rushing hole at your center for the rest 
of your life. Hearing that made us feel a little

like church. We are people who forgive, but 
who can forgive something with no eyes, 

no ribs, no head to bow in shame? 
In the dream, though, we sat and spoke 

somber. In the dream, we reached out 
and took what must have been your hand, 

smoky and vanishing and damp. You let us.
And when your whir-voice said, full 

of torn-off roof shingles and children’s 
coin collections, that you were sorry, 

we wanted, with all our blood and breath, 
to believe you. So, for the span of a sleep, we did.
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