Angela Chase Weather Report
A tsunami comes when you tuck your hair behind your ear,
wipes out summers under your staircase and subarctic
poems in the chambers of your boots,
wind-washed Thin Mints of girls interrupt
wallflower wishes like a Category Four,
until there seemed no tactile cure for his blindness,
save for trimming his bangs, no plaid shirt to hide you,
my brownness. I journey with you, no limit
whether as you, as Juliet or Carrie Mathison –
because yes, you’ve escaped the storm front typecast
suicide – as an ambition with a hair out of place or an ugly cry,
some old girl band song when winter made a u-turn.
Things I Didn’t Learn When Visiting the McGruff House
Finally, adulthood, where I keep a plaid shirt in my car, in case I find the Dairy Queen Jordan Catalano works at. Where a sea breeze is a safe place and a hotspot. She knocks on the door and it’s the boy she bullied answering, allowing her a safe place to stay until her parents come home. And we remember that planes collide. It’s important to know what kind of Hot Pocket you are, if you want to be famous, if you want to go the easy way. I triumph only as the sole woman in the boardroom, not the lone girl at the frat party, flavor my skin like that time at the lake we all wanted it to rain and instead got a cross-section of hot air and whispering trees.