The Thunder Was So Mad

 


I was summoned and dispatched
to witness her demise
before the coffin was sealed.

He rented a truck to bring her back
to our home

down south.

In the rain, I heard the thunder,
the sky unhinged from the heavens,
angels shedding their tears.
The wipers could not keep up
with the emotional outbreak.

An old truck carried her coffin 
in the drencher.
In the dusk, the lightning discharged,
a thunderbolt warning what was coming next.

The cannonade of 
rock-breaking cacophony
twisted, manipulated, 
tortured in hell,
the pain simmered, 
the travail roiled, 
teeth gnashed, 
rage ruptured,
the sorrow burst, 
the grind continued.
 

No one ever explained it to me;
“How can the sky be so angry?”
I was too small and too short 
to reach the dashboard,
let alone to see what was ahead
or what was going on. I could only 
gaze at the wipers and wonder 
why the sky was being kicked out of the heavens. 
Why the angels cried.

Why the lightning insisted on blazing with queer light.

The thunder was so mad
as though no one understood him.
A scream or yell was not
enough to proclaim his inner flame
agitated in the rain.

Since then, whenever I hear you,
I realize

you’ve never healed, 
an ever-fracturing voice
that can neither express your
disappointment nor
untangle your torment.

Again and again,
you try to explain.
 

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