Tonight I walk with lightning

Lightning

My partner and I walk
in hazardous conditions;
a silent picture
before the thunder rolls in.

What I know about lightning:

The colors can be
green, blue,
abrasion red,
neon sign yellow,
pink as grapefruit,
bruises on flesh,
violet, cyan,
and flames.

Also,
no two bolts are ever
exactly the same color.

That negative charges
live in clouds
while we step
on positive landmines.

Oh, and lightning never
strikes the same place twice,
which everyone knows.

I want to know
if “lightning” is a verb.
Because “lightninging”
is slightly unsettling.

Most journalists say:
“there was thunder and lightning”
to avoid using the verb at all.

I hold my boyfriend’s hand,
as we speed up on uneven
sidewalks under slices
of sky carved by knife.

Rocks in pavement cracks —
They’re on standby,
raised like hairs.

Suddenly, I’m aware
of thunder in my chest.
Is it a first love flashback?
It’s been such a long time.

I laugh at such young girl
thoughts from a grown girl.

In my head I write this poem:

The first time I was in love,
 
I stood on a boy’s porch step
and waited for a kiss.
He had freckles
drip dropping
across his face.
I waited the whole night.
I didn’t lean or make my body
obvious as a sunflower
following sunshine,
 
or bowing to rain.
 
I just took a seat near him,
so close to his mouth
in my own mind.
 
And then it happened.
 
He smelled like metal
and trees all at once.
He kissed me slowly.
 
It felt like a naked swim.
 
The current was charged,
but failed to kill me.
 
I ran home in the rain.
My feet never slowed.
I could barely breathe
as I reached my door.
I slammed it behind me.
 
My heart was drenched.
 
I have forgotten how to pray,
but I wonder how many people
in the world right now
are asking for rain.

Or how many moms tell
their kids that thunder
and lightning are angels
bowling and striking pins,

or God is angry.

We round the next block.
A man and his shepherd
hustle across the street.

The sky lights up in sections
like different parts of a chorus.

The wind whines a warning
so we lengthen our strides.
My legs are short so I run
to keep up with my partner,
who has long swimmer legs.

By the time we reach home,
clouds have swallowed
the light rays,
shooting stars
bent like boomrangs.
Our love is a safe,
seasoned one.
I have to feel around
for a pulse,
but it’s there.
It comes in little waves.

I tell him I’d push him
out of the way
if a tree was struck.

I hope I would.

There’s a story behind
the cloud curtains.
It’s covered in veins,
flickering signals telling us

we’re alive until the clock strikes
in places where time ceases to exist.

We wait to feel the first drops
before the sudden downpour.

I want to smell the earth
beneath the concrete.

4 thoughts on “Tonight I walk with lightning

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