Better For Storms

I let weather into me like a man.
I want thunderstorms to rattle my thighs.
The rain brings up the earth,
then the smell of childhood mud pies
and the way he looked at me
in the back yard, the bullets of a storm
changed to a drizzle where I could see
the water beading in his dark hair.
Newness changed into years,
we grow together, two saplings
that thrive resilient, hearty
roots long, deep, our clock circles
and now I’ve too much past
on my mind, in my dry hands
like a snake hissing
quietly as a threatened cat
in the dark hallway of the house
 I grew,where I thrived into a woman and found
you could grow
your own ghosts.

Sarah Lilius currently lives in Arlington, VA with her husband and two sons. She is a poet and an assistant editor for ELJ Publications. Some of her publication credits include the Denver Quarterly, Court Green, BlazeVOX, Bluestem, and The Lake. She is also the author of the chapbook What Becomes Within (ELJ Publications 2014). Her website is