By Tara Labovich
dad and i stood at the threshold of the empty
apartment as long as we could, seeing all
we could see. the only thing between us and green
sky: the screen door and our own midwest infancy.
the tree came down. missed us. soon, the sky
pitched too, groaned under the weight of his
tantrum, and tossed himself to the ground.
for almost an hour, the life around me—root,
moss belonging between the toes of a tree,
sneezeweed and prairie smoke—danced
high like celebration or heartbreak.
there’s a train coming, i said.
it’s the engine of the storm, dad said.
across the street, a roof lit green with fire.
and we stood there, and we watched.
it was all too long and all too short,
in the way only great disaster can be.
when the rains cleared, neighbors stood in the yard
with chainsaws to take away the tree
that trapped us inside.
welcome to Iowa,
they said. what a hello, i said.
Tara Labovich (they/them, MFA) is a writer and lecturer of English and Creative Writing in Iowa. Their multi-genre creative work explores questions of queerness, survivorship, and multicultural upbringing. Their writing is nominated for Best of the Net, and can be found in journals such as Salt Hill and the Citron Review.
