Because I was afraid, it followed
methe strange illumination turning
rooms malignant, like a bad x-ray.
One summer at my grandmothers,
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 attractionI 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 outleta hole
in a beer cancut clean through
but left me standing.
They say it never strikes twice but
thats a lie. Ive seen the same tree scorched
until the last limb splinters across the lawn.
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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 50 | Fall/Winter 2017