The Storm

His crooked arm reaches—strikes—

to crack upon her tender face.

A deafening slap in the dead summer air

breaks the midnight peace.

The light reveals his wrinkles—

angry, many, and gray—

Her face marked black by his abuse

summer day after day.

His relentless battery upon her,

her aged but beautiful form,

broken by his anger, assuaged by his relief.

Her heart remains torn.

His anger spent, his heat dissolved,

he moves on—grumbles fading, finally deaf.

The storm has passed over once again.