The National Poetry Review

Kristina Martino

SELF-PORTRAIT WITH HOROSCOPE AND WEATHER REPORT

I’d predict rumination but that’d be a bit romantic.
Who will rivet my deciduous advances towards
tornado and turns for the worse? As for a sky tourniquet,
all I’ve got is this parasol to fend off the impending
squall: its frills and its hot pink are a force majeure
in the grand color scheme of things. On the grandscale,
sunbeams and lucid dreams have the same rate
of metaphorical impalement. I know I’m dreaming,
I know I’m dreaming
—and then you wake to that sun-
burned feeling. It’s the same as interspersed
wakings when the storm is accentuating your roof—
and subsequently, your dream-roof—at first it sounds
like a freight train…then a continuous snapping
of twigs…then you fumble out to check for puddles
in the morning because, of dream-weather, who can
remember? I’m a bit too millennial to remember
when the almanac was almighty, but as a child I had
a dollar bin copy of the 1992 Commemorative
200th Anniversary Edition and it called for a hurricane
and the hurricane happened. Still, the world is still
starry-eyed and they can’t discontinue oracles
or night vision or myths about a boy living in hyacinths.
Such regalia is irreversible as birds-eye-view to
the flighted, the fiery-sighted, and the synthetically
well-lit. I put on my porch light. One can hope for heat
lightening should Venus demarcate Mars, but I should
rather strive for our own stratosphere’s delineations
as it’s lonely enough here already. Supernova is nothing
I haven’t seen on a small scale with fire and fire ants
in an adult-diminished playground. I’m not finished
explaining but neither is the weather. From my window—
unwaning yet unmanned—the storm stays mostly
in the yard. Citable or just excitable, these lines of rain—
what I want to know is will this storm be enormous
enough to have a name? We can’t surpass the land-
scaping of the man-made lake but look at the tiny drop-
lets over-flowing the surface in the floodlights—in the
backlight of the floodlights—and finally, look at the flood.

KRISTINA MARTINO is a poet and visual artist. She studied at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop and the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts. Some of her poems have appeared in BOAAT, Third Coast, Bennington Review, and elsewhere. Some of her drawings can be viewed here: http://www.kristinamartino.com.

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