I read poems on Friday the 13th. It was Mercury retrograde, a total lunar eclipse on the horizon. It felt like breaking. Like a spark of mother. Or acid. How many disasters will come to pass before something changes? How many times must I open myself before others? Each day, blue tarps from the last hurricane line the streets. There’s a flash flood or tornado watch, piles of warning wherever we look. The levees hold now, but the water continues to rise. And it’s everywhere. I saw a wildfire in Colorado at Christmas. I saw my wrist snap against the steering wheel while driving home from work. Thought I died more than once that night behind the airbag and shrapnel. In the video, you watch me pull the death card from my ergonomic chair. Then suddenly, I am in the ambulance, full of potholes and IVs. My father found my glasses in the SUV’s trunk. My father found me wandering CVS in a hospital gown and sling like a specter. There is nowhere left to run. No reason to check my horoscope or dusty air filter. No breath that isn’t held just a beat too long.