The kind you’re born with, the kind you choose, the kind that teach Catholic school
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The storm would not abate
that night, the lightning
blinded me. He said
I arched off the bed a foot
or more, screaming, he said he
thought I was struck and I was,
and when the dream sheets
of white light kept repeating,
I’d wake up trembling
and roll toward him. One night,
after yet another bolt, I reached
for the bedside lamp and the bulb
lit and frizzled at my touch.
What did it mean?
He called me “witch” and I
married him, then lived for
a decade in the lesser light
of our fusion. Only it wasn’t that,
just need and lust scrawled tight.
But I was talking of light,
how it blinded and illuminated,
I was talking of visitation and power,
not the unbending lure of his eyes.