by Marcy Rae Henry
how to sleep through a storm
when windows rattle, don’t think of glass breaking
(or the ex who broke everything) don’t think of the song
‘Walking on broken glass’ or it’ll get stuck
and while not thinking about it, thunder enters the sky
but try not to think about having to replace the roof
(or the boards banging in the wind on the back gate)
‘…that’s the way the thunder rumbles’ creeps in
and stays there, so think of listening
to Bedbugs and Ballyhoo in the desert
where stars aren’t closer just more visible
pull the dog closer (smell the top of his head)
when the storm sounds prehistoric, when the dog hears dinosaurs
roaring, the earth transitioning, don’t think of oceans boiling, ice
melting, rivers disappearing, the heat dome causing the storms
and fires raging across a country with water down its two coasts
don’t do it—even if the storm reminds you of hurricanes,
(which always reminds you of Al Hurricane) or earthquakes,
or images of destruction (in order to sleep, don’t think about
paltry tornado practices at Catholic School, hiding under cheap
wooden desks with Jesus in a loincloth watching over you
but not really because his tarnished eyes were looking skyward)
it’s not a soothing storm; not the rain channel you put on when you can’t sleep
(or attempt to heal yourself of trauma with) at times the storm is louder
than the fan; at times the fan is louder than the storm, but the dog is not a fan
of the storm and the dog is almost a Buddha (if you can’t be Buddhist about it
and focus on your breath, focus on the dog’s breath, deep and steady; he’s safe
and warm and dry, as if a child in the desert dreaming about the city)
when you can’t stop worrying about migrants and overflowing buildings
and community spaces, don’t start thinking about people without homes, animals
chained up outside, wait until the morning when things clear up, when blue returns
to the sky and the sky returns to the heavens and there’s the calmness that follows
a storm and buttons to click on to donate and emails to write
asking: well, now where did they go?
during the storm try to feel grateful it’s been more than eight hours since you watered and the grass
and the flowers welcome the rain because it doesn’t have chlorine and fluoride, don’t think about how weeds will grow and start to choke out the petunias (remember to put your gloves on so you don’t have earth under your nails even after a shower, even after scrubbing them with two different brushes because you don’t want to be called dirty Mexican because it will remind you of Catholic School and the feather-haired girls who talked mucha mierda about brown skin but didn’t wash their hands after going to the bathroom or before eating a white sandwich on white bread with white meat and mustard and laughed at your burrito delicioso and who likely grew up to drink margaritas and ‘do Cabo’ as if it was a Trent or a Chance on spring break with his whole frat that constantly corrects them, saying: would you refer to your country as a cunt) just listen to the storm; listen to the storm in a way the ex never listened to you, the way the newly proselytized listen for a sign, the way Roland Barthes
made a sign that meant listen; hear its movements, pauses, highlights, what it brings down,
passes down, passes around, listen up and listen down, down to the ground if you need
Marcy Rae Henry is a multidisciplinary Xicana artist born and raised in the Borderlands. She is the author of death is a mariachi, winner of the May Sarton NH Poetry Prize, (Bauhan Press), when to go to the Taj Mahal (Bottlecap Press), the body is where it all begins (Querencia Press), dream life of night owls, winner of the Open Country Chapbook Contest, (Open Country Press), and We Are Primary Colors (DoubleCross Press). Her work has received a Chicago Community Arts Assistance Grant, an Illinois Arts Council Fellowship, a Pushcart nomination, first prize in Suburbia’s Novel Excerpt Contest and Kaveh Akbar recently chose her fiction collection as a finalist for the George Garrett Fiction Prize. MRae is a professor of English, literature and creative writing at Wright College Chicago, a Hispanic Serving Institution, where she serves as Coordinator of the Latin American Latino/x Studies Program and received Phi Theta Kappa Honor Society’s 2023-2024 Outstanding Educator Award. She is an associate editor for RHINO and a digital minimalist with no social media accounts. marcyraehenry.com