“Lightning in the Desert” by Adam Deutsch

20 March 2015 on Poetry   Tags:

It could be the papers that knock
just before a fire goes out under dinner.
Served. Then the silent flashes
are closer than we think. Count
your Mississippis.

Make a full stop at every flushing sign,
looking east, where they keep storms.

Tonight, life is nothing like that one blackout,
all candles and generated light,
spider webs between rooms
collapsed by my body.

One day our meticulous spaces will be theirs,
and tonight we don’t want anything to die.
I try to cup bugs on the wall, slip
a card over the mouth, soaring little lives
off the balcony. Crisp winds take them soft.

This is nothing like midwest thunder,
barreling darkness into itself
or east coast blown-out skies,
an army of natural dancers
escaping the cage
of birthday cake cream.


Adam Deutsch lives in San Diego; teaches college composition, literature, and writing; and has work recently or forthcoming in Arsenic Lobster, Thrush, Spinning Jenny, Ping Pong, and Typo. He is the publisher at Cooper Dillon Books and has a chapbook from H_NGM_N Books called Carry On.

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