Annette Frost
In the Concession
Originally published in Epiphany Magazine’s The Writer’s Studio at 30
The storms were wind and sand and shadows.
They came at night. They came ahead of sleep
and rattled the hibiscus bush. The storms were
red and bleak. And brown and gray and made of breath.
The storms bent the young millet stalks and made them
women, hunched and not alive, not dead. The storms unslept
the sleeping things. Loosed scorpions from the grass
thatched roof, dropped them like rain. The storms
were snakes. And roaches. They surged and brawled.
They made the treetops moan and shake. The storms gave
legs to silent walls. They carried dust and rubbed it
inside mouths. They came, a rushing wall of brittle sand,
but moved so slowly from far away, a red wall coming. They broke
instead of knocked. The storms were men.