Swath
       

Almost always,
this is what they call it

      The mark in the landscape
      the dark streak in the landscape

so intently cut
it looks innocent enough

only a chalk line     fuzzed out to its edges and
smooth as a banister

      unpredictable     then
regrettably distinct

what is clear from above
in the aftermath
The path of a tornado
sweeps clean across
whole fields and towns
sometimes     whole states

and leaves a scar that tenors
like a Rothko     it hums
what it obliterates

the afterward     a lapping wind
like a woman cutting muslin
at a table     a muted sound
of yardages unbolting

It is a kind of onomatopoeia—
an influence
of both destruction
and yield

Not surprisingly,
the word has its origins in grain—
areas rich with it seem
easiest to devastate

The swath     a measure of the width
of a grassland
reckoned by the width
of the scythe—

a long and curving blade,
fastened at an angle
to a long handle
a pair of hands
under which
whole fields give way.

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Copyright © 2012 Stephanie E. Schlaifer All rights reserved
from The Carolina Quarterly
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission