When this hurricane comes, I am all candles, all reverence,
All wafts waving lavender up the walls of each room in the house.

I feel the cool ridges of tourmaline bite my palm. As I squeeze,
They mark me. All my plants have diseases; I can’t keep them alive.

The leaves stop reaching for the sun. Wilting, speckling, 
discoloring, unusual curling. Even the aloe vera drying up into itself. 

I remember when, my mother with the green thumb, watched me break
A lamp and declared, everything you touch, you ruin. 

This was not a prophecy. That same mother made cookies, cautiously folded 
In chocolate chips. When I receive an Oomancy reading about the plants, 

I am told my ancestors protect me. I am told Persephone wants my attention. 
I do not take chances: I set up my altar, I finish the protection wreath and salt

Every window. Living across from a cemetery is enough to know we don’t 
Tempt the beyond. I wait out the storm, I light more candles,

I wear the crescent on my neck. I flash my tits to the moon for good measure. 
I wait to see if my plants survive this storm and the next. 

We are all waiting. My husband is ready to start a film, his thumb resting
On play. I am waiting for the cake in the oven when vanilla meets my nose.

My friend from New Orleans paces, wondering when they can return 
To their apartment so they might salvage what remains of the wreckage. 

In small ways, each of us waits for the world to end.
Some days it feels sooner: like when the thunder rumbles, 

When the house shakes, when I wade through water waist deep
On the streets where I grew up—when the trees crush roof to rubble. 
 

---

Emily M Goldsmith (they/them) is a queer, non-binary Louisiana Creole poet. Emily received their MFA from the University of Kentucky and PhD from the University of Southern Mississippi. Their creative work can be found in or forthcoming from Midway Journal, Gnashing Teeth, Zaum, The Penn Review, and elsewhere.