Lightning
Meredith Davies Hadaway

Because I was afraid, it followed
me—the strange illumination turning
rooms malignant, like a bad x-ray.

One summer at my grandmother’s,
it pierced her living room. Get away
from the piano, she yelled, as if

the storm swept through in protest to my
endless scales. She thought wire strings
were the attraction—I knew better.

Later, it struck a house where we
all sat shivering. A stutter, like gunfire—
then the smell of smoke.

It blew a plug from its outlet—a hole
in a beer can—cut clean through—
but left me standing.

They say it never strikes twice but
that’s a lie. I’ve seen the same tree scorched
until the last limb splinters across the lawn.

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