January 2008 / Volume Eight / Issue One
Michael Cuglietta

the hurricane came
it knocked out the power
in our small house
we almost burned it
to the ground
with cinnamon stick candles

we took shots of
spiced rum
feasted on
cold Chinese food
danced naked
to a battery powered radio
listened closely
for storm updates

the wind threatened to
blow through
the sliding glass door
take the roof off of
our house
we watched tree limbs
flying through the air
you listened to me
when I told you
would be over soon

there was no way
I could have
protected you
there was nothing
I could have done
but take you
the comforter with me
beg you
to stay inside
sweetheart, itís cold out there
sweetheart, itís wet out there
sweetheart, donít leave me alone in here