White Light – Christine Brooks

When I was younger
seven or eight, maybe
even
younger than
that,
the thunder came rolling
in
over our house that
had been
dropped
on the outskirts of
urban-ia
landing on a street mostly
forgotten.

28 Ionia rattled and
shivered, but
Never, not ever
crumbled from the
booms,
Or from the
bolts.

I hid from the loud claps
house shaking, knees
knockin’,
under the bed, hoping
for time to grow longer and
Longer
as I counted the
seconds
between the
Growls and
bright flashes of
white.

Come out, you say
the angels are just bowling, no
need to quiver,
no need to shake.

Look at the dark sky
streaked
with light, even in pitch
there is
—light.

Sometimes, it isn’t thunder
that rumbles and grumbles, or lightening
that flashes and
flickers our lights

No, not at all.

The angels are
bowling
I remind myself

and when I do
I am with you again
in your arms
starched white nurse’s cap
Bobby-pinned high atop
Your salt and pepper
Bouffant hairdo

Even in pitch there is
light.

Even in pitch there is
light.

Even in pitch
there is
light.

Image via Pixabay

Comments are closed.

Create a website or blog at WordPress.com

Up ↑

%d bloggers like this: