Cluster

by Alston Tyer

A gray sky glazes like a patient coding. 

Sirens wail. I chain a cat o’ nine tails 

from daisies someone picked for me,

pull spare stems out from hangnails.

I only ever lose one petal. 

My mother ushers me inside,

says the town we drove through yesterday

was bifurcated clean by the byproduct

of our new tornado season.

Good, I think. A Christmas miracle. 

Maybe in the rubble they'll be 

kinder to their neighbors. 

We all sleep on propped-up cots

eventually. 

I ought to hear a train wrenched

from its tracks, see a static storm 

from a safe distance, and pray 

for ample evacuation.

But the windows in my home 

have yet to shatter.

Why should I pay mind 

to some unnamed 

struck down by debris?

Soon, our turn comes, ordained.

The tips of my fingers stain 

green from flower-crushing. 

We draw lots 

for spots 

in the sole interior room.