Rita

We pulled threads off the mattresses
during the hurricane,
wondering if one would pull more
than another silenced feather.
We talked,
storing the words in our backbones
until we had no choice but to lie down
and wait for the whistling outside the window
to catch in our throats
and make us say a different word.

The lights were out
hiding behind the static left by the tv,
while the wind continued to blow it farther away.
We coughed our laughs, then caught them in our toes
and buried them beneath the blankets
so we'd have some left for
when we finally fell asleep.