by Michaela Stephens
Waves of lightning wash under my skin
Try holding forest fires in a tissue bag
or a lion in a teacup.
So vast its degree
I strove to damp it down.
It left me..
a shriveled husk
brown,
a stunted bitter tree
Come back! (such sterling chagrin)
And wailing like an Irish hag
in a town made cinders.
Solitary.
Until a tickle, a drop of flame
returned my jubilee
