Hereafter

Once, in winter, I was blessed

      by lightning, the plane

sudden struck—the boom

of it, the cabin lit up

      & then the air

made metal

in my mouth. It’s true,

      you can look it up—

we had circled like hell,

_____

trying to land

      a good while—

once even descended

through clouds of snow,

      earthbound, only

to rise again

the last moment

      when a plane already

sat there, blinking,

_____

on our white runway.

      Exiled back

to the sky, we orbited

the airport untethered

      & impatient.

So when lightning threaded

us through, we all knew—

      wrong it turns out,

yet one day

_____

true enough, perhaps soon—

      we’d be done.

You should know

that after you ready

      to meet the far,

stony shore, it is not hope

but the strange fire

      of forgiveness

that flares & fights

_____

there—not wanting

      to go, hoping only

you’d said so

long to all you know—

      to the elms

who also know what it means

to be told you’d die

      & survive.

In that emptied, electric air

_____

some wept. Others asked

      to help, or for help,

began to act

as if it was merely static

      that snagged

us aloft. How long

did we linger

      up there, in thunder?

Thinking mostly of all

_____

I loved, of what

      I’d never write.

Mirror

of my mind. Once we kissed

      the earth again, firetrucks

ushered us

through the open gates

      where the five o’clock news

asked what I’d seen

_____

& the woman I loved, picking me up,

      talked a blue streak till she heard

the between we’d been.

Quiet then, we fetched

      my luggage orbiting

the conveyor belt, unspooling

its rosary. We drove

      home in snow deep

as silence. This little

_____

living light. Even now

      how to name

just how bright the sky

looked that night & most

      the next day?

Hard to believe

one instant

      you could be beyond

the earth’s reach—

_____

the next, marveling

      at our singed,

wounded wings.