Where It Takes Us
Dan Zinno

Tornado Girl
Adriana DiGennaro

You’re probably the last person I should be writing to
but I was room
and I was dancing in my high
and the skirt swishing at my hips, my stocking legs, my plus-size hair reminded me of you
hearts and bows make me think of you too

you came through on a road of destruction, seduction, tornado girl of brow-raising sixteen
with your polka dot handbag, black and pink and black again bob with bangs,
hourglass curve, rebel baby, little fool
I can only write this poem because I loathe you
of course

tornado girl I remember when we’d get in our capsule, my little green-blue sporty thing with a spoiler, hurling itself through night’s hour-slow wormhole
burning our brains and money every night till we had nothing
then we’d do it some more

but in a way we had everything then
and if we didn’t have it we stole it         tempting fate
in brightly lit stores carrying beauty products, lacy little clothes, candy, artmaking materials and jewelry treasure, we took them
five-fingers-snaring, dropping perfect tubes of glitter into our bags,
once in a department store I nabbed a square plate 
with black and white leopard print and a red rose
we almost got arrested that night
I didn’t care, I followed your perfume cloud around

Girl, now I see whole trees uprooted in your path

it took a while, habits being hard
to break       but
I swore you off eventually

deciding I didn’t want any more lidded eyes with perfect cat black lines painted, no more little pills in your palm, no more pages in my daybook drawn on, no more law-breaking, dreaming, acting-hazy-brazen- it was time to be my age

so I watched other people link like charms to your snaky rhinestone chain
you flicked yourself like a scorpion, doubled over twice despite seeming upright,
nose tipped at the sky to swallow 
whatever poison waited there     you smirk-smiled    you spun

you dropped out of school, crashed on couches      I trash talked you like flames torching from my lips

but tonight tornado girl 
I’m listening to a fast song you’d like, it’s called Miami
it makes me dream of us, we’re flying down some beachside highway 
with sparkling night lights guiding our way to a pretty nowhere 
but it’s OK cause I’m letting you be my main attraction and distraction

I really have no desire to write you now or any time    but I guess I got confused
by the sight of your shelves at someone’s house where you’d stayed 
three wooden shelves with your hobo belongings: 
hookah, hoard of fake pearl bracelets, chunky black leather high-heel pumps,
disembodied dartboard, TIGI hair products “for cool people only,” manifestos on drugs and doing nothing

 I got high and painted my nails and told myself not to fuck up

we haven’t spoken in months    I think I heard you hate me
well I hate you too whenever I pass those shelves
and stand there fiercely missing you 
full-lipped ruffly pink black velvet jacket miss of the glitter-gloss kiss,
top-heavy hip-swirling swiveling spinning sweeping –

if I looked I might find you     but I don’t know

isn’t one supposed to hide 
from a tornado