My father a rain switch
reaching out horizontally
expanding his arms.
Eyes beaming light
fingers pointing towards the sky.
My father would say a storm is brewing.
There has always been a way
to determine that the rain is coming.
It is not always in the thunder.
It is how the clouds gradually increase vertically.
How they leave their posts
armoured in darkness
Forming a guild across the sky.
sometimes there will be lightning.
My father a rain switch
Elevating his fingers
pointing towards nimbus clouds
Explaining the dense and deep dark greyness
Prevents the sun from filtering in.
Look, at the clouds, a storm is brewing.
My father a rain switch
That did not shut down then activate
pointing towards my mother.
Watch as his beam begins to scatter.
My mother the tropical storm
rapidly rotating strong winds
Producing heavy rains, hurricanes
using her children’s faces.
She taught us the method
of breathing, exhaling
while suffocating submerged in tears.
She disproportioned winds with a blow
gasping for air, inhaling.
My mother evaporated water
recondensing clouds,
With fixed eyes, glazing
my mother waved
while slowly weakening on land,
Becoming her strongest over and near water.
She taught her children
How to lie face down
Even in situations
where people were present,
Unaware her faint pulse caused our drowning.
My mother a tropical storm
the hail in the thunder
the vortex on the ground.
She produced tornados and microbursts
with her breaking energy.
River’s flooding, air sinking.
We learnt to preserve oxygen
with our hands covering our mouths,
Breathing through our noses.
It is easy to assume
when a tropical storm passes through land
it weakens,
and the disaster is over.
So, my mother taught us to tread on our trauma.
Leaking liquids while she passed through.
My father a rain switch
and my mother the tropical storm
No one told us a storm was brewing
no one told us a storm was ending.
No one told us a storm was transcending.