Traveling Through Lightning
traveling through lightning is
disorienting
I am here
I am not
all this living is more electrifying
when the sky trembles
with light
my senses stand on end
waiting for the next
I exist – I do not
making sure I don’t
disappear
somewhere in between
and the world is still
as I left it
only seconds ago
the world can change
from one breath
to the next
it’s happened before
realizing you were here to stay
packing to leave
a job I thought I’d love forever
all the paraphernalia of living in a space
part-time, long-term
the call from the hospital
that feels
like someone else has answered
the empty house full of things
from one flash to another
the world
shifts
looks different
is different
will never be the same
but only sometimes
sometimes
it is just
lightning
passing
Night Creatures
Coyote pups yip in the distance
and the sound lifts the hairs off my neck
the way good music does
but more disturbing
I freeze
unable to leave the sound behind
unable to stop hearing it
immobile
desperately wishing I was running inside already
though they’re a mile or more up in the woods
living in their den
begging for food
reminding me I can come in second in this race
if I’m unlucky enough
reminding me that my ancestors knew
how to run
reminding me some things were made to live
in the dark
and I am not one of them
Wind Chimes
The wind chimes were funeral gifts
the best of:
fake flowers
a peace lily I couldn’t keep because my cats would eat it and die too
(people can be thoughtless in their sympathy)
three scented candles I hate
and refused to make into some sort of shrine
mournful quotes on throw blankets
and two fresh flower arrangements
that weren’t bad, even though I dislike carnations.
The wind chimes were the simplest,
without affectation of grief,
so they were all I kept.
I hung them on the back porch
and their sound fills my kitchen.
I remember now
that my grandmother had wind chimes
outside hers, too,
something I had forgotten in the years of
assisted living,
then nursing homes,
and finally hospice.
The memory floors me,
not with grief as much as awe.
I can feel her with me
in that other kitchen.
That’s all we want from Heaven
isn’t it?
Not God and all the answers,
but a few more minutes with her,
the air redolent of onion –
the best smell you can imagine now.