Crawling under a table,
my fourth grade storm shelter,
I read, the unfolding story
drowning out sounds of wild rain
demanding entrance at the windows
Clucking teachers pecked and whispered
my oddness promptly reported
disquieting quirks of
my parents’ youngest born
Facing off with grownups
a gunfighter without a gun
stammering an answer
“I was scared of the storm,”
“I did what made me feel safe.”
Safety left me long ago
my body a crooked “S”
I lie quaking under cover
no unfolding story but my own
cat's purring, insistent warmth
tucked into the bend of my
knees is small comfort as I lie
waiting, waiting
for the storms to pass
