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.

Source: Poetry (July/August 2025)