Selfen pulled the blanket around herself—tighter—tighter—never tight enough to hold herself down. She hadn’t realized she was screaming until she noticed her parents enter, their horrified countenances swarming in.
A head asks you “What’s wrong?” from a far-flung memory.
Another, “Calm down!”
Another, “What do you need?”
The lightning is a camera; its flash mummifies the moment.
These icons infiltrate your collection,
which you often wish would just hurry up and burn.
When you are surrounded and alone—
when voice, and even thought, abandon their owners,
find companionship in thunder;
its sympathy shakes foundations:
homes, families, and selves.