Susan’s Monsoon Afternoon
By Shannon P. Laws
The window did not care
that it was open
Neither did the curtains
concern themselves with being wet
The wind was indifferent
it blows where it wants
But Susan’s hand cared
as it slapped the window shut
That hand connected to the arm
the arm to the shoulder
shoulder to torso
carrying the head
the head that sent the
electrical currents and
held the soul of Susan
Those bits cared
that the new curtains were
dripping with the afternoon monsoon
blowing in the open window
behind the red couch
They forgot to set the alarm again
Someone was going to be pissed
about the puddle on the hardwood floor
But neither the wood, the glass
or the sheer of the curtain screamed
The cat is outside crouched under her car
The figure on the coffee table is tipped over
—and the TV is gone
The kitchen light is on
A shadow runs towards the back door
and someone is upstairs in her bedroom
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shannon p. laws 