This evening it storms.
I am resigned to spending these maelstroms—
And for that matter, all incarnations of weather
Save for hurricanes, which, necessarily, are family affairs—
Alone;
Because, I reason, the circus in my head is still
Too graphic to inflict on another person.
But in the meantime there are recurrent storms.
So in a bed that seems too wide
And flanked by too many blankets,
I set about imagining
This pillow I'm spooning isn't a lumpy rectangle of cotton,
But a waist that tapers and then broadens into tulip bulbs
And gravity draws my lazy wrist
To the nadir of that precipitous dip.
When lightening splits the firmament,
Raspy white fingers reaching hungrily into crevices of the sky,
I shut my eyes against the instant floodlight
And conjure up a careless knot of hair
That spills maybe just shy of my nose.
It stops there, though.
Much too dangerously specific to pretend a scent,
Because every person’s fragrance is her own
And the beauty of this non-reality
Is that it lacks precision (no eyes, no hands, no scent.)
And though I haven't been afraid of thunder
For many years now,
I still feel better if someone else—
No matter how illusory—is there
Not being afraid of thunder
Right next to me.
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