by Cameron Morse

Thunder creaks in the crawlspace.
The house speaks to me nights I have
trouble sleeping, its tongue pierced by nails.
Lightning haunts my window, lightning
without rain. If only I could sleep
and be healed, sleep without dreams.
Breathe without dread. But I am on my hands
and my knees always in the dark spaces
beyond the ladder, above and beyond,
in the distance between your hand
and my thigh, the lightning and the horizon.
The house cringes then cries out.
My son is afraid of the thunder. I explain
the lightning is still far, far away.