Heat Lightning
Before the fireflies and whiskey
reveal their elemental glow,
a rippling cord divides sky from sky.
The halves surge and flash
separately. Match them
together: they fit the forms they create—
absence—silence—darkness bowing
above us, temporary summer
strumming thunder.
We sit on a crooked porch, hoping
to be released from the heat.
Sheets of rain will fall.
The late season’s blood
pounds in our ears. We want
the mountains again,
where we ran through streets
soaked by a sudden storm
and watched meteors steer the night.
We want to move, to dance,
but the rain won’t come.
So upstairs to the cool
shade of the bed; we undress it,
pull the covers back. Our layers pulled off
—sky by sky we meet.
Neither of us believes in God,
but I trust your hand
in mine, your body next to mine,
begging the form it longs for.
