Allison Donohue

Beneath gunmetal, when the muted trees sweep
their hundreds of leaves, shimmy them to our hey-daddy
yells of Thunder! We count: nicking the seconds of silence
on the front porch post. The growl makes the dog quake
at the bottom of the bed. And makes our parents fumble.
With claw-like fingers, they pick through the crap, looking ...
While we watch the glass table begin to lift off the deck. It is light
enough; it is only 4 o'clock and they are somewhere now in the back
of the house, their sounds wind-tunneled in this hurl
as the table now completely levitates off the ground,
the open umbrella we forgot to let down. And all the chairs
afterward, circled, as though some pivotal adult moment
has just occurred: the chairs pointed at one another.
And the space in the center
like when the music stops and everyone pauses, then panics,
then careens their bodies, knife-like, forward.