by B.J. Love
I. Everything worthy of repeating,
my love, seems too embarrassing
to say, even once. For example:
I am a tropical storm, and baby,
you are the unfortunate island
I find myself bearing down on.
I wake up, and it rains. I wake up, and become the
rains. I wake up, and I am rain running the length of
your arm. O to feel you under me in this way!
I want to press my front against your front. I want our
fronts to be just parts of our larger systems. To storm
with you here could be a new kind of cyclone. A new
kind of hail. Goddamn, to be a system this fucking
Sound the sirens and grab onto my knees. Darling, if
we are lucky enough to survive this storm I think we
should name it Benjamin. Benjamin, I think, is a very
Benjamin, we could say, the whole of you has
collapsed into our coasts. Benjamin, we would say,
could you be our greatest disaster? No, Benjamin,
we will say, you are actually shaping up to be our
greatest apology. How we will still make good in this
My love, I am only an accidental cloud-maker. A
depression with little potential. You see, I have never
gotten anyone pregnant, and that this is the only
practical thing I can think to tell you is the saddest
meteorology I can imagine.
Love, keep your television on, and wait for me.