Thunder Isn't Thunder

Instead the stars fall in a biblical fashion, instead the rapid bursts of light in an overdue storm

cling to the perception of life

from the viewpoint of someone who has not been scathed by the concept of it, who has not been picked clean by the adult man’s baby tooth collection. Instead of living, the girl finds solace in her own mind, converses with the monster beyond her closet door. We

were all monsters, once. We all have a choice to make. 

Show me your kindness and I’ll show you mine.

Instead she digs a grave for every past lover

in the bare, untouched backyard of a recently sold home.

New neighbors, new forces of violation. New people to touch her,

to handprint her surfaces.

A mesquite tree

is planted over his three-lettered body.

The thunder’s violence is a reddened mark

on the back of her neck, where the bird bit her,

before the final temptation, before

bones became bones.