TONGUE TWISTER
I’m probably just the wrong
size for certain
disasters. Like the tornado
sweeping up the woman as she seeks shelter in the
police station with her husband and
baby. My mommy went away in the
wind. My mommy went away in the wind. He
will grow up and write this
poem. I really didn’t understand much of any-
thing until now. It was like going away in a
wind to be alive the wind would carry me sweep even my
thoughts into a shape I could never predict or fathom I
surprised myself but couldn’t help
myself I could leap I could crumble I wanted to
improve but I let everyone have too much say. I sat in a
room once a week with a therapist. I liked telling him about my
father the shrink. It was like saying—look at your profession—look
at what you people do. Look at
the result.
LAUREL KALLEN is a poet and fiction writer who teaches at the City University of New York. She is the recipient of the 2009 Stark Short Fiction Award and the Teacher/Writer Award. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Global City Review, Legal Studies Forum, Scapegoat Review, La Petite Zine, Atlanta Review, Big Bridge, and Portland Review. The Forms of Discomfort, a collection of poetry, will be published by Finishing Line Press in Summer 2012. Laurel has been a featured reader at Perch Café, Cornelia Street Cafe and The CUNY Graduate Center. Her daughters, Maia and Chloe, are gradually coming to terms with their mother’s presence on Facebook.