Susan Daniels Poetry

there are things that make naked

not in the strip-teases we like
each layer peeled in a sighing dance
with pauses for pleasure, but in blind surges
that take, rip everything at once,
tearing off what shields

we saw cities shudder under jet streams
dragging a hurricane that wanted ocean
into land, screeching at a moon
no one dared dream under
but prayed for safety. she still pulled us
into her game, knocking houses like dominoes
off foundations & idly flipping boats
onto boardwalks
the way babies splash toys out of bathtubs

we are skinned
the hard way wind
shaved the face off that building
leaving our stacked rooms open.
it is raining on the sheets. wind
claims the kitchen & the sofa
is a boat lost in waves
& sunk

but we are more
than the sum of these rooms.  we are people
who pick past ashes, sift
brick for reminders,
because storms like this one
have retired names
& befores & afters.
we find small stones
to tuck into new walls we plan

like us, they will be stronger
& more resilient through remembering