by Joanne Lowery
|When thunderstorms skip through our valley,
cymbals and kettle drums announce
goosebumps on the river, high water
making downstream take longer.At the front of the front the first lightning
cracks trees and electrocutes antennas.
We hold our breath, counting and calculating
when our turn will come. Even in the waitingwe die a little, our hearts’ rhythm stumbling
and our eyes dilated with flash.
It’s the same as bomber roar and explosion:
we know what’s coming, try to hide
our flinches as one bolt too close to home
Unhalved, our wholeness ticks, tocks