A storm brews
The way a curse grows in the back of the throat
Of the little old bruja on the corner
If it takes you by surprise
You weren’t paying attention
All the signs were there
The slight ache in your right hip
The vibrant green of moss on a tree’s north-facing bark
The milk curdling a day early
The finger of chill running up your spine
As the hair on your neck stands up
Everything in its place
And a place for everything
And when it culminates, the story shifts
The hero doesn’t make it through this time
There is no miraculous recovery
The apparent downfall
Is all that it appears
The curse finds its mark
Like an arrow, straight and true
That’s the way a storm brews

Ann Schlotzhauer


Ann Schlotzhauer is a Kansas City native and graduate of the University of Tulsa. She currently resides in Florida with a small, gray cat. Her poetry, fiction, and photography can be found in East Jasmine Review, Foliate Oak, Alluvian, Sheila-Na-Gig, Junto, The Wire’s Dream, Cardinal Sins, and more.

© 2020