Storm (Meghan)

Storm

We’ve been waiting patiently for summer storms,

familiar gatherings of purple vapor, crisp surprise of lightning

flashing to announce (to those who pay attention) all the violence

we’ve craved.  Serenity is stasis, and who would herald calm

when it isn’t much to usher in?  A pittance of swollen drops

sticking to our window screens, shimmering in the lamplight.

The midnight strollers are wandering again, shaped in lamplight

for moments, not minutes, undeterred by threatening storms.

And as the folded swath of sari on her shoulder drops,

he’s caught it in ready hands, absently aware.  She’s been lightening

his landmarks for twenty years, nearly inaudible syllables of calm

rubbed like salve on a night terror chest that once knew violence.

In the apartment above are the running thumps of youth’s violence,

footfalls growing heavier month by month in artificial lamplight.

I’ve never seen them, but I know they’ve known but little calm

since their eyes’ apple learned to walk.  And they pray for this storm

to subside, but they’re terrified: in a thunderless burst of lightning

he will grow; they will age; the pendulum will drop.

Earlier, the sun was hooked on a fishing line, a hazy bob and drop

that made me feel the drug of its heat—my mind in violent

inquiry of the moveable star.  I closed my eyes. Lightning

spot mosiacs clustered in the dark.  Could it be the lamp’s light

that burns, quiets, and dies is more fixed?  Or will the cooling storm

remove this veil so trees are trees, hands are hands, anxiety is calm?

You told me once to seek tranquility.  I told you once that word and calm

are not the same.  The tranquil man’s head only drops

when he bows it; he doesn’t know the current of summer storms

locked inside a kiss or un-kissed longing, the sustenance of violence

powering the inner, where even in this mutual lamplight

it’s difficult to see.  I crave the scare of thunder, the awe of lightning.

The midnight strollers round the bush again, but this time lightning

catches her eye.  She points.  He hasn’t seen, but nods calmly

and gently touches her back to prod them faster, out of the lamplight,

out of my gaze.  They won’t pass again tonight.  First fat drops

dot twilight pavement with black.  I imagine they run from the violence

like the toddler upstairs to their own little shelter from the storm.

Calm is colored in catharsis: we will weather this storm.

Tomorrow, the momentary thrill of thunder, lightning, violence

will give way to lamplight where a swath of sari drops.