Thunder, 1954

Thunderstorms seemed bigger to me
in those days. I lay awake, tucked up in white sheets,
looking toward the bedroom window where my mother
showed me the dance of blue-white fire over clouds.
She had long ago gone back to bed, when my father
came in, quietly, in the spasmodic dark, closing the door
behind him. He sat down and took my small hand
in his big hot palm. You're not frightened, are you? he asked.
I told him truly, No. The storm rebounded from the hills
above our town, with the sound of giants moving furniture.
My father's shoulders hunched. I could smell his sweat.
Your mother's asleep. He wanted talk, but I couldn't
have known what to say. A huge glare, the sky cracking.
Can you smell the cordite?
What's cordite? I asked.
You smell it when they fire the big guns.
He went to the window and looked out into blackness.
As the lightning came and went his arms hugged
his own black silhouette. Go back to sleep, he told me.