Gazing Off Into a Hurricane: Rhoni Blankenhorn

May 7, 2020 Kate Belew with Rhoni Blankenhorn (New York City)

When I reached my hand through the window

through the cracked glass, fingers outstretched, no blood

wavering still, a new horizon

asphalt gleaming, that long black tongue

a river road towards whatever is next, sweeping

white spiders and what's left of the banana bread

straight into the storm gutter. I waited

for a sign from god. I waited for clouds to part

I waited at the end of the driveway. I waited for the bus 

coins for passage ready in my hand. What will become of us

I do not pretend to know these things, now.

I've never been good at pretending,

and you, what about you, gazing off into a hurricane,

elemental in your animal skin, humming.