Sarah Sweeney
What knows the seconds after
the earth sizzles? Cicada thrumming
through electric air, trees
dipping knobby thumbs
for drink, and the still-spinning tire
of the blue-biked boy struck
on the pavement.
I knew his sister then;
how she tugged his body
after the storm, amazed
he was there, but was nowhere—
eyes evaporated like steam.
Then, neighbors knew everything,
mothers spread gossip on summer lawns
in sleeveless gowns,
while fathers pretended
not to listen, winsome faces turned
in the whiskeyed light, prodding
at some branch. After learning
we might die anytime,
anywhere, as random
as lightning,
we pedaled past
the boy's house, its shuttered
gray windows, and whispered
his name: Brian, Brian,
as though culling him
from behind the honey locust,
where he was only hiding,
dirt-footed and breathless,
running from a game
of outlaw children
hunting the block.
He never appeared,
a little apparition
in dwindling summer,
but we waited anyway
in the spot he was zapped,
our ears tuned
for thunder, checking
for clouds, a bolt
from Jesus’ finger,
chanting if you’re here
give us a sign.