Last night, folded in under blankets
that could not heal loneliness, I asked for a sign
from God, something simple, and before
I could specify just what I’d like
there came a shock to my chest, as if I
had been clamped with jumper cables. My
veins surged in a tsunami of blood,
a world awoke within my sleeping self.
I thought last night I would die
in bed, that my heart was erupting.
We have flawed chambers in my
line of people, hearts with kinks
that clog, one side of the muscle refuses
to speak to the other, and that lack
of communication kills. We die in bed,
at all ages, the next day beginning without
us in it. But last night I lived, and I lay
like a body thrown up upon a beach.
I slept and woke, made coffee, and went
about my business, remembering nothing
until dusk, when I drove by a field
green with new clover, and I remembered
once I walked in a pasture at midnight holding
the hand of a boy who loved me and we
met an electric fence barelegged.
The current kicked us to the wet
ground where we lay coursing together.
We howled while the stars vibrated and
the grass sizzled like cords between us.
Then, laughing, we got up and went on.
fiction poetry "fact" photography