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 |
Joanne Lowery’s poems have appeared in many literary magazines, including Birmingham Poetry Review, Rattle, Slant, Cottonwood, and Poetry East. She lives in Michigan.
So many harsh hard K’s that evoke the sound of lightning and thunder! Gave me chills.
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