portion of the artwork for Meredith Davies Hadaway's poem

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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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 50 | Fall/Winter 2017