I missed the warning signs, back then, and even later,
thunder rumbling through the valley after those brief flashes on the horizon. I
can see her face when I close my eyes: her mouth, her eyes, the tilt of her
head, hearing the whole time the snide remark of Mae West: Are you making love
or taking an inventory?
I try to keep my eyes wide open, as to keep from seeing a
face I miss, which may be how I missed the warning, back then, even now, the
flashes of light on the horizon I should have taken more seriously, how at risk
it all was, and how I might have run for cover before it all rained down on me.
I hear the thunder now when it is clearly too later, after
the story has passed and I’ve already been drenched, my soul drowning in it
instead of quicksand.
Do we know when to stop even when we heed the warnings?
Or are we already lost by the time the sounds come? Do we
need a lightning strike to tell us we made a mistake?
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