Hannah Smith

Funnel Cloud

The ground was unfriendly. The water table, high. No incentive to dig
beneath the frostline. During rainy seasons, the clay flexed
so much our house was held down only by

three children, the dog, a kitchen filled with music,
the basket of mismatched socks in a storage closet. We built, instead,
another story, reaching shingles closer to clouds. We pushed

away a layer of grass for a fire pit and a porch—the perfect picture
of a yard outside the city center. To excavate the limestone, to drill
into the mud, would be too expensive for local builders.

When clouds gathered, we collected in the bathtub, buried our heads beneath
the twin mattress, waited out the threat of tornadoes above. We were
reckless, climbing stairs each night only to sleep closer to weather. My sister

in the bunkbed below me. She and I dreamed head-to-foot, separated
only by air and wood and feather. On nights
where thunder cracked open the sky, I froze. My body

above her, the highest breathing thing in our house. Exposed
to the wind if our roof were to lift off the walls. First to fly away
with the storm. I wished to keep her safe in the shadow I left behind.

Hannah Smith is a poet living in Dallas, where she works for Southwest Review. She is a National Poetry Series Finalist, and her poems have been published in Best New Poets, Gulf Coast, Ninth Letter, and elsewhere. Her collaborative chapbook, Metal House of Cards, is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press.