a hall gathering
If the thunder woke us, the antenna waving lightning-invitations,
the tin drumming under wide oaks, and the gate
flapping in little screams, we would pile in the hallway, pillowed,
lacing arms, gown silk slipping uncomfortably on vinyl tile floor.
Everything held its breath. The hall of an old home
that could rattle with a sneeze was wide-eyed silence,
a cloud hovering, warm gathering, mass
crescendo of terrific imagination.
Yet they never touched down on us, only fear,
only warnings, only the heavy learned love
of abandon, of arms, and of heart-banging dark.
written in response to L.L.Barkat’s prompt – The Hall
Yes, I know it. You never know what you’re going to get here. I don’t either. Every time I post a poem, I tell myself I’ll never do it again. The only reason I can tell that revealing a poem is so excruciating is that it must come from a different place. My heart actually races when I write it. I don’t know why.
So now I’m wondering – If you’ve read down this far into the post, what makes your heart race?
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