Tornado Warning
To be young is to be taken
under siege, corridors
of children kneeling, gravel between nape
and palm. To be young is wish on extra-terrestrial bodies, gape
at the green dragging bare faces skyward.
I want to wring my tongue out
like a wet towel and lap up the flood waters.
To drink. To divulge. To be young
is to be asked Do you think you can
run faster than me? To the park
and back?
and to plunge into blacktop. You dare me
now in a windless rain:
Come on, just the park and back.
At times my body looks like an unseasoned turkey
my legs tied back as hands reach within me
and foil-pack the innards for the dogs.
Sometimes I think a wet brine does the same
as gargling saltwater. There’s nothing sexy
about a naked turkey that listens
as the hands that bind detail the things they’ll do
to keep it moist. A Cosmo how-to guide
regurgitated en masse: some meat cannot be tender
without taking a beating. I brace for the eventual
question over stuffing and potatoes: when
are you going to find someone nice?
What dog will unpack the foil?
Amanda Pszczolkowski is a writer and a lover of bigfoot and crossword puzzles. She graduated from Grand Valley State University with a B.A. in writing in 2021. Her poetry has been published in Stanchion and Rogue Agent, with forthcoming work in Sonora Review. She lives and writes in Grand Rapids, Michigan.