by douglas john imbrogno
1.
Awake, abed, in a
shadowblack room.
Eyes closed. Then,
my field of vision
goes white, the color
of a stick of chalk.
Am I enlightened, at
long last? Or dying,
witnessing the near-death
glow of an itinerant
god? No. Eyes, unwrapped,
search the misty darkness.
Still alive. Then, my ears
move to the fore, alert.
Loud growl of thunder
on the other side
of my bedroom window
shade. Lightning, then.
2.
If I’m to be an
insomniac, a fine
thunderstorm is a
welcome thing.
To entertain. To
relish and divert from
mournful or misbegotten
thought. I ponder
getting up. Going to
my front porch,
storm-sitting perch.
Attending, as if
a courtier, to
the showy pomp
& circumstance of
a storm’s arrival.
But remain prostrate.
Wondering which
thunderstorm this is,
this March night
of my seventh decade.
3.
My hundredth? My
thousandth? How
many thunderstorms are
we allotted in an
average mortal life?
And what of the
storms preceding
hominid life? What beasts
looked up, pricked
their ears, cowered, or
twitched their noses at
the scent of ozone,
left by thunder cracks,
lightning’s perfume. Who
pondered, awake,
restless and maybe
afraid, too, of the
cataclysmic skies,
10,000 thunderstorms
ago? And comfort,
too, it should be said.
4.
Why so violent
a thing as jagged
bolts of livid energy,
separating the
sky in half, maybe
piercing to the
heartwood of
an ancient tree,
leaving smoke
and ash and fire
behind — why,
exactly, does this
grumble and flash
cause my toes to
curl. To draw the
covers to my chin,
feel my partner’s
heated body and
feel safe? Did
such a storm,
10,000 back — no,
say, 100,000
storms ago,
cast down from
heaven’s vault
a blazing spear of
fire, which my
ancestor, yours, too,
not too far descended
from the trees &
African savanna,
ran and braved
to grab.
5.
First flame of the
proto-human race.
And all that such
a legacy bequeathed
the centuries since.
So, that the
quaking sky is
not so fearful,
since our
ancestral memory
cherishes those
times, Prometheus-like,
the howling, purring,
cracked-open sky
left a gift behind.
huntington wv | march 26. 2021
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