Tornado Child

Kwame Dawes - a poem for Rosalie Richardson

I am a tornado child.         I come like a swirl of black and darken up your day;         I whip it all into my womb, lift you and your things,         carry you to where you've never been, and maybe,         if I feel good, I might bring you back, all warm and scared,         heart humming wild like a bird after early sudden flight. I am a tornado child.         I tremble at the elements. When thunder rolls my womb         trembles, remembering the tweak of contractions         that tightened to a wail when my mother pushed me out         into the black of a tornado night. I am a tornado child,         you can tell us from far, by the crazy of our hair;         couldn't tame it if we tried. Even now I tie a bandanna         to silence the din of anarchy in these coir-thick plaits. I am a tornado child         born in the whirl of clouds; the center crumbled,         then I came. My lovers know the blast of my chaotic giving;         they tremble at the whip of my supple thighs;         you cross me at your peril, I swallow light         when the warm of anger lashes me into a spin,         the pine trees bend to me swept in my gyrations. I am a tornado child.         When the spirit takes my head, I hurtle into the vacuum         of white sheets billowing and paint a swirl of color,         streaked with my many songs.