Tropical Depression
By Benjamin Faro
We, brothers, were but boom-swings
born of unnamed storms—eighty-eight
knot gales that tested Mother’s savvy.
Born at the peak of twenty-nine
-foot swells, we left her concussed
and rudderless, unsteering
in our unsaid suddenness,
pummeled by the fetch
and wind shear. Shaken
by the atmospheric glut
of life for more
life, trough-bound
and plummeting through
downpour, heart-shook, no-
keel spinning in this North
Atlantic baby, growing not
-yet-hurricane, tipping stern
and bow and stern and bow
and vowing to tack forever
into an infinite, nameless wind.
Photo by Zolton Tasi