Read this week’s Lifestyle post to find this poem’s trigger. Enjoy:

The Eye of the Storm

1. She opens her eyes. 2. She finds herself on her feet, blinks her lids once or twice, and pushes the hair from her line of sight. She feels windswept, but everything is still. Everything is quiet. 3. She rolls her shoulders and her movement seems to flip a switch. Her ears pop and she hears a stifled static behind her and she realizes the hair at the back of her head has been billowing. 4. She twists her back so she faces the wind. As she rotates all the way around, her nose meets a black wall — a storm. Her nose touches the wall of wind and rain and pain. It rips at her hair, but it does not touch her. 5. She remembers where she was before she woke up. 6. She turns away and finds herself in a field. Soft grass rises to her knees. She’s surrounded on all sides by storm, encased, encircled. Far, far ahead is the same wall that still tears at the back of her head. 7. Her heart seizes. She wants to run, away. She is an animal. She wants to fight. To run. To kill. 8. She won’t. 9. She breathes, blinks her eyes once or twice, and pushes the hair from her line of sight. She looks at her feet and finds a daisy between her toes. She looks up and sees one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine clouds. She looks ahead and sees a wall. 10. She inhales; she exhales. Slowly, she crouches, she lets the grass brush her face, she finds the ground, she presses her back against the dirt. Her eyes are closed and sunlight is pressing against her lids. 11. She opens her eyes. 12. She is surrounded on all sides by sentries, by strands of grass. They cradle her. Everything is still; everything is quiet.

13. She breathes, she closes her eyes. 14. She opens her eyes and counts one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen clouds. And she waits for the storm to pick her up again.

Keep breathing,
Sabrina