on feeling lightning

I am twenty-three / standing in the rain of a pacific northwest thunderstorm on a

september midnight / standing at the foot of the stairs in an alley / dim and

drenched, potholes turned to puddles / we are worlds away from our cozy

candlelit room / we rushed outside at the first crack of thunder / hastily dressed /

socks soaked through canvas shoes / jeans plastered to skin / torrential tears, rain

on my cheeks / the storm in my bones / energy crackles around me / fine hairs on

my arms stand on edge / I am on edge / waiting / my boyfriend pulls me into the

garage / into safety / he says you shouldn’t stand out there, it’s dangerous under

the powerlines / I don’t care / I read somewhere that lightning is hotter than the

surface of the sun / I wonder if that’s true / I wonder if I could feel the heat on my

face if I got close enough / I kiss him in reply / return to the rain, to the risk /

normally I am cautious / I never climbed trees or jumped into lakes / I triple-

check the door when I leave the house / walk with keys between my knuckles in

dark parking lots / compelling curiosity / I wait beneath the powerlines for the

lightning / I haven’t seen a storm like this in a decade / for a moment I am eleven

years old again / playing in the rain of a midwest thunderstorm on a july afternoon

/ playing in the alley behind my grandparents’ house / a memory I had forgotten /

revived by a thunderstorm / I want that spark back / I want to feel the lightning, so

/ I wait / above, the black sky growls / thunder reverberates through me / a pause

and then / the purple sky cracks open / canvas ripped apart by blinding

light / in that moment I swear I am ablaze

This piece was originally published by Southchild Lit, in March 2021