Mackenzie Moyer
Souderton Area High School

The Meteorologist

Did he not see my cracked and bleeding hands when we first met?
The veins that stood out like upturned tree roots, the seawater leaking out of my nail beds.
Did he not know that I was still trembling from hitting rock bottom?
It hit back.
That's what they don't tell you about earthquakes-
they aren't attacks,
but reactions.
The tectonic plates are still brokenhearted about Pangaea,
Some lonely nights are worse than others.

The way I fell in love with him, must have looked too much like his forecast screens.
Too wild, too unpredictable.
Almost always inaccurate.
My hair in the morning too dark and frothing,
A shipwreck at sea,
A harpooned whale.
My voice reminded him too much of thunder;
Making known the lightning within me.

At night he whispers in my ear about safety precautions,
about provisions in the basement,
about emergency procedures.
Says he knows how to wait me out.
Forever a perpetual storm,
Forever a catastrophe.
You can't change a thing like this, I warn him.
You can't tame the wind,
where does it come from?
Where does it start?

He says nothing, turns on his side. Goes to sleep.
Dreams of a sunny midday.

He tells his friends about how I ruined him like Katrina, like Sandy, like Earl, like Hugo.
Find a quieter girl next time, they say. Find a drizzle, a cloudy afternoon.
He mumbles under his breath about climate control and the diminishing atmosphere.

I know why natural disasters are given human names.
I am waiting for the day a hurricane will be named after me.