Acclimated

We used to crouch in the hallway during hurricanes.
Now we lounge in the living room and respond to text messages:

Yes, we are okay. No, we are not worried.
From the couch, we listen to frogs ramp up as the wind dies down,

and we no longer jump at the grunt of a loose window
when a 119-mile-an-hour gust whips around

or flinch when a band of calm is punctured
by the bang of a transformer giving out.

We register the small silence when the A/C stops
before a chorus of generators rev like stubborn cars

around the neighborhood. Phones act as flashlights.
Bedtime’s at dusk—electricity is overrated.

As long as we have tortillas and nuts,
we can let lettuce liquify in the tepid fridge,

brew coffee overnight in tap water and wait.
These days we’ve seen chaos from lots of angles,

know which shelf to place it on while we figure out a fiddle tune.
We’re used to staying put while squalls

twist the treetops, and between the widening coils of storm
we breathe air sweetened by the absence of disaster.

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Sarah Carleton writes poetry, edits fiction, plays the banjo, and knits obsessively in Tampa, Florida. Her poems have appeared in numerous publications, including Nimrod, Tar River Poetry, Cider Press Review, The Wild Word, Valparaiso, Crab Orchard Review, As It Ought to Be, and New Ohio Review. Sarah’s poems have received nominations for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Her first collection, Notes from the Girl Cave, was published in 2020 by Kelsay Books.