The whole field jolts, the record
halts to lightning,
onion seeds spread open
in the bed you planted, night,
by car headlights. Our one room house,
shaken by cracks of sky,
sits loose on concrete
blocks. I imagine lightning strikes
at the foundation, while you’re yelling
in the yard for the hens
to go inside, grabbing at their feathers,
drenched and helpless.
We’ve hardly spoken today.
I watch the flood wash down
the driveway, broccoli leaves bending
under the weight of water,
the greenhouse sides flapping,
torn in the struggle
against wind. What if I never admitted
to pulling apart? What if I bent
on my haunches as a dog
who’s clamped the only chicken,
gripping its juicy bite when the owner slips
the thrashing belt from the loop?
Back from the coop, you take
my head in your hands in the open doorway.
Your shirt is soaked
and the next flash
strokes the sky around us.
I don’t deserve this calm,
in your fingers. The land rushes
and I hear its anger, echoing through
even palm-covered ears.