At Close Range

by Susan Kolon

Threatening. Looming. Unpredictable.

Showering the fragile with strikes of

instability. Changing space to create,

renew. My storm lingers from childhood. 

Such a quiet child, crossed the street if a

song sparrow landed on the sidewalk. Walked

Image credit: Benjamin Elliott on Unsplash

away quick, into Mama’s arms, into the

eye. Seeking shelter, instead I am rained

on with a spinning bucket of her belittle, 

No one is looking at you. I sing silent, 

a destroyed wish to be visible. I move to

California in my twenties, toward pools

of blue. Bouncing on the end of a diving

board, I search for rainbows, gusts of confident

promise to lift me toward a thin ray. I meet

sun-covered clouds — only violet-eyed boys 

cast back in the distorted reflection of my

self-worth — the shortest burst of color. 

My storm surged in my thirties when

my house nearly burns down by oven

mitts, worn by a man drunk not

on love, but Jack Daniels. I have

mistaken the shine of liquor for forever,

raindrops of scorched temper glut

me, douse me, lured in

to its fiery torrent. Submerged, I go

lower. Storms can be silent, stealth, clap

thunder, stay bright. I admire their command as

I nearly drown, only with steadfast treads

of water do I become a skilled sailor.

I am not a storm chaser, but I understand its

pattern. Time has released me from invitation. 

Experience allows me preparation. Still

unpredictable. No longer looming. I stay

away from open windows. My storm is now

familiar. I have never named it.

***

Susan Kolon

Susan Kolon is a wellness coach in her day job, and also whenever someone ‘has a health question.’ She hold an M.S. from Northwestern University and a B.A. from Michigan State University. Based in Chicago, you can find her work with Corporeal Lit Mag, Dulcet Literary Magazine and Gnashing Teeth Publishing, among others.