Tornado Child

         for Rosalie Richardson

By Kwame Dawes

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 mother-womb trembles,

remembering the tweak of contractions

that tightened to a wail

when my mother pushed me out

into the black of tornado night.

I am a tornado child,

you can tell us from far,

by the crazy of our hair;

couldn't tame it if I 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 centre crumbled,

then I came. my lovers

know the blast

of my chaotic giving;

they tremble at the whip

of my supple thighs;

tornado child, you cross me

at your peril, I cling to 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 colour,

streaked with my many songs.

from Wisteria, Twilight Songs from the Swamp Country

posted 14 September 2006