The Crossover

Storm

Like a strong wind, Dad

rises from the clouds, strikes

down the stairs, swift and

sharp and mad as

lightning. Flagrant foul, ref!

he yells to everyone in the

gym. Now he’s hail and blizzard.

His face, cold and hard as ice.

His hands pulsing through

the air. His mouth, loud as thunder.

He tackled JB—

this ain’t football,

Dad roars in the face

of the ref, while JB

and his attacker do

the eye dance. I want to

join in, offer my squall,

but Mom shoots me a look

that says, Stay out of the rain,

son. So, I just watch

as she and Coach chase

Dad’s tornado. I watch

as she wraps her arms

around Dad’s waist. I watch

as she slowly brings him back

to wind and cloud. I watch

Mom take a tissue from

her purse to wipe her tears,

and the sudden onset of

blood from Dad’s nose.