If a Tornado Strikes, We'll Live in Its Eye by Brad Aaron Modlin
If broken bricks whirlwind around us. If a green sky and a train sound and kitchen knives and engine parts. If basement pipes and something steel from the roof. If no bathroom or ditch to hide in. If her bare arms and dangerous tin cans from Thursday's recycling. If the bedside lamp we clicked on-off-on-off-on every morning. If nails flying by. If a refrigerator tries to land on our skulls. If she needs someone smarter or stronger or funny. If checkbooks and the books we took too much of each other's time to read. If we're both so damn exhausted. If one in two houses ends in tornadoes.
If I tell her about the couple at the Greyhound station on my way home from Birmingham. If cyclone dirt in my eyes, and hair in her eyes, and her hair in my face. If glass shards like fish scales. If a crumpled chimney like ours. If it's our neighbor's house. If we've forgotten what our house looked like. If she stands so close she's standing on my toes. If I say, At the bust station, I saw a husband and wife asleep on each other. If backs on the terminal floor, they pointed their legs at opposite walls. If each rested their head atop the other's. If she's on my toes. If she doesn't scrunch her eyes to answer me, and say, But that can't physically happen.
— Everyone at this party has two names by Brad Aaron Modlin (Page 80)
