All families are hurricanes

c. 2017

I the flying bathtub,  
you the plush footstool,  
our mother is the flat tire dad left by 
to run warn us the hurricane comes.  

In its eye is the bad seed.
another family: drink
another, divorce, 
but our mom and dad:
abstemious, loved.

*

I’ve been writing poetry since about 2014, twelve years now.

Lately I’ve been going through my archive, pulling out the poems that I still think hold water. This one is from 2017, about three years after I started writing poetry.

Hope you enjoy.