Damage

Hail pummeling, dark

windshield unshielding

now quarter-sized, 

maybe golf ball—

weakened wipers fighting,

soul-strike after soul-strike

like gunshots 

to the spine.

A different person, 

another kind of woman

might’ve slowed, 

quickly sought cover—

an overpass maybe

or fought for space 

at the Buc-cees 

diesel pumps.

But she drove unphased 

by the ensuing cracks, 

accelerated even—

toward the falling 

pieces of storm, 

knowing the damage 

will be striking

in the light.


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