Major Jackson


Me and my cousin
would pretend watchtower
on the third floor

of my grandfather's
house Saturdays after
a rainstorm and wait

for white flashes hushed
in a charcoal sky. Crowded
with rooftops, the tiniest

twinkle sent our fingers
off jabbing the air—
Hot icicles! Flying juice!

Zig-zag bolts! Actually,
seen at the margins
of vision, they were less

jagged, oval-shaped
much like Electric eels,
smoother around the edges.

For hours, we pointed
then named the sparks,
depending on a rumble

to announce their coming,
auguring like ancient
prophets. My cousin once

compared the many silvery flares
to God's wounds healed
upon human sight. I followed

likening the meteoric openings
to glowing keyholes into
an alien world. Years later,

I would go down on a woman
and discover again jewelry
shimmering in the dark.