Letter to a Wind Turbine
Meghan Cadwallader
And now they’ve sent you.
It wasn’t enough, was it,
the sheets flapping
on the backyard clothesline?
The vanes and the socks,
such paparazzi,
they track my whereabouts
predicting my plans--
still, they were nothing
to me, mere annoyances.
I have turned fertile
lands to dust
carved arches
from stone
whipped water
until it’s air
ripped the houses
from their streets
But you--
your arms are skinny
pointy sticks, they radiate
from your trunk
like some winterless
snowman. And
you’re tall.
Not as tall as me, but then
we’re measured differently:
you have an inseam
where I have no waist, no bust
no legs even, nothing
but currents.
But still
you would not fall down
if I pushed you.
So I try to slip
past you, travel east
and curve around you
like any good water thief
but your arms catch me
batting me about,
using me.
I wish I were a boxer
Fists for gusts
I want you laid out cold,
Useless.
And now they’ve sent you.
It wasn’t enough, was it,
the sheets flapping
on the backyard clothesline?
The vanes and the socks,
such paparazzi,
they track my whereabouts
predicting my plans--
still, they were nothing
to me, mere annoyances.
I have turned fertile
lands to dust
carved arches
from stone
whipped water
until it’s air
ripped the houses
from their streets
But you--
your arms are skinny
pointy sticks, they radiate
from your trunk
like some winterless
snowman. And
you’re tall.
Not as tall as me, but then
we’re measured differently:
you have an inseam
where I have no waist, no bust
no legs even, nothing
but currents.
But still
you would not fall down
if I pushed you.
So I try to slip
past you, travel east
and curve around you
like any good water thief
but your arms catch me
batting me about,
using me.
I wish I were a boxer
Fists for gusts
I want you laid out cold,
Useless.