Sheltering in Kiawah

Rush, a voice on the phone alarms.
Pack water and charges. You will soon be prompted
to seek shelter.            I have been shielding
from the constant flow of bad news, and now –
a named storm.

Across the ocean, my birthplace
is surrounded by war.            
No, I apologize, my birthplace
delivers war
to its neighbors.

Grenades of lightning. Growls
of conflicting winds. A Grunwald
battle of oaks. The logs of the fallen –
picked up unidentified.

My five-year-old and I hurry to the basement
and I sweep its concrete floor. Asthma
does not care if there is a storm, or war.

I take a seat by my son, thinking
of all the Ukrainians
packed into dusty shelters.
Worn-out, stressed. No change in the forecast.

Coughing,
I want to crack the door open. Yes,
I want to crack the goddamn
door open
and walk out
into the storm.