Memory as Thunderstorm

From my front porch, clouds
hang like gray cotton
from a moth-eaten quilt. No rain,
but it’s promised in the silence
of cicadas and the wind
that whistles and whips the weeds
against the house.
                                             Then comes the flash,
a cacophonous shroud of lightning bugs
that, all at once, decide to fall
and form a neon thunderbolt
to split the air in vengeance
for every single mason jar
or fly swatter that is or was
                                                                    or will be
and crash somewhere beyond the oaks,
then roar, fly up, and fall again
while water whispers to the roof
the way Nana spat her dentures in a cup
of seltzer water. Clear, at first, then bubbles
boiled between the teeth and rose, with clumps
of crackers, to the surface to sizzle
as they burst against the air.

And she’d say Your granddaddy’s hands were
blue-veined marble. If you looked hard enough,
you could see down to the bone. Her sunken
lips pressed against my forehead. If I ever see
you hit a woman,
                                       I’ll bury you.