Tracy May Fuad is a poet and essayist of Kurdish descent born and raised in Minnesota.
Her work has previously seen the light of day (or will soon) in Ninth Letter, Hayden's
Ferry Review
, Nashville Review, and DIALOGIST. She will be in residence at the Vermont
Studio Center and will embark on an MFA in poetry.

A Girl Storms into a Bar and Turns into a Cloud

A girl storms into a bar and forgets what she is for a moment.
A storm rolls in. The girl is always switching on to cruise control.
The storm, disguised as a girl, gets sick of the costume and sells it
on eBay. I just want a normal life, the storm says of the decision.
The girl bids on the costume just to have a backup on file in case hers
is corrupted. She picks up the girl suit and drives home with cruise control
clicked on, the deflated spare limp in her trunk like a tire, the rain making
pancakes of plasma on the windshield, obscuring the road ahead.

The storm creeps up on a still lake and looks down; sees himself for who
he is. The storm pours buckets and when the lake is whipped frothy with white
he runs from the mess, leaving a trail of downed trees like matted animal fur. The storm
posts up on a dormant volcano where the wind eddies him into the shape of a smooth lens
atop the mountain. The girl drives by and sees a spaceship; sees it as a sign and swears
she'll change. The sun sets and fills the storm with pink and the girl stops,
turns off cruise control, pulls over on the shoulder to watch it.

The girl sits in a rowboat on a still lake alone, watching as a storm rolls in,
feeling as if she is seeing the scene from above. Girl in a boat on a lake in a storm.
When the storm has passed and the whitecaps are smooth again she rows ashore,
drives to a bar and walks in. Inside the bar is a dormant volcano topped
with a cloud like a stack of wispy pancakes and the girl says hi
to the storm. She unzips her girl suit—it's soaked—and peels
it off. Beneath she is vapor and she expands to fill the room.

How It Happened

Well, I pulled
the plant from
the earth, made
its veins into windows
and watched its milk
drip from the stem.
It's getting dark, I said
to deaf ears, the two
of us all goosed up
on big catch. I
shook the tree,
felled the pears.
I wanted to know
what full-bleed
felt like.

Or a man took out a pen
on the subway and drew
us. It stunned me.
I glued my eyes
to the page as the train
rattled over the third
rail, the rat tails &
trash piles and place
where a woman
was pushed on
the tracks last
week. As the man
traced our hair and
our legs and our hands
our drawn selves started
to bust up in laughter
and we watched
as the man crossed us
out, stood and left.

Back to Front.