Your touch, your kiss, your glance
is electric. Shock me again.
Sockfeet shuffling on carpet.
Electrical outlet, electrical cord.
Benjamin Franklin flying a kite.
Electrical storm, huddled in bed ignoring
blue flashes that pierce my eyelids.
Electric hairdryer and curling iron.
The things we do to be beautiful.
What is beautiful? And why?
Why is beautiful?
Why is beautiful.
Electric fences to keep us in,
to keep them out. When the power’s out,
escalators are staircases, elevators, still boxes.
Electricity travels from your skin to mine.
I see it. I see your mind
churning ideas, churning out thoughts.
Lightning blazes, thunder explodes.
Thor throws his hammer that cannot miss.
Sif sits at his side, wondering
if all this is really necessary.
Couldn’t a gentle rain do the same thing?
But she has never been a mortal
coupled with another mortal
waiting out the gods’ wrath
and holding on for dear life.
We are having a lovely thunderstorm, so this poem seemed appropriate.