Notes on Hurricane Sandy

by Samantha Hopkins

storm. A violent disturbance of the atmosphere with strong winds and usually rain, thunder,lightning, or snow.

A pile of wood now, but once
the tiki bar we frequented
all summer after I turned 21.
The beach scattered with Debris
from the gazebo my neighbors
got married in just the year before.
Mr. Teehan owns the ice cream stands
on the boardwalk and
he found parts of the soft serve machine
scattered throughout town.

storm chasing. The pursuit of any severe weather condition, regardless of motive, which can be curiosity, adventure, scientific exploration, or for news professions/media coverage.

You flew home on the first flight
not cancelled to photograph
disaster. You wanted to show
the deserted streets of our town
and our neighbor’s belongings
strewn amongst fallen braches. You
couldn’t stop crying when you saw the doors
marked with X’s and deemed condemned.
You shared your photos on Facebook.

storm surge. A rising of the sea as a result of atmospheric pressure changes and wind associated with a storm.

During the storm, main street became waist-
deep with water. The ocean covered
the entire town and left no distinction
among roads, homes, stores, and
the actual beach. Your pictures
showed the door of Uncle Will’s
Pancake House covered and I
could not recognize the motel
on Shell Street, covered in sand,
even though I’ve lived
down the street my entire life.

storm warning. A warning issued by the National Weather Service of the United States when winds between 48 knots and 63 knots are predicted to occur soon.

I called my Mother the morning
the storm hit —
Everything is fine, I’m out
getting coffee, the warning sounds
worse than it really is.

 

Published in Kalliope 2013

Bones

by Emma Farrell

It was January.
White sky, frozen ground.
The driver didn’t see you.
You were completely annihilated.
But a nice angel came down
and gathered your bones.
She dusted the snow off each one
and placed them in her bag
with all the others she collected.

Six years have gone by
since that 8th grade Sunday.
But I know you’re not really gone.
Your left sneaker is still lying in the street.
An airy ghost of you
still shuffles through the hallway.
The seat you once sat in–
still untouched.
I hear you whispering through the walls.

 

Published in Kalliope 2013

Song of the 35mm Camera

by Kyle Kasinec 

Load me up with a notion,
and when both our bodies brim
with tension, hold me up—
press me close against your skin.

Let light kiss my eye, let
light kindle my insides, let
light expose a freckled shoulder
deep within my skull. Find

a dark place—delicately
adjust my focus—hold it
steady—press my button,
flash—shutter, repetition. Wind

my dials, pull my levers;
unlatch me and behold
mechanical anatomy,
my prized, imprinted memory.

published in Kalliope 2013