Two months ago a couple in Canada got stuck at the top of a Ferris wheel
for seven hours, at the very zenith of its turning orbit, and a lightning storm
began as they were trapped there. Later, the man mentioned
to the reporters that he and the woman clung together for dear life
as the streaks of bright white light shot down and around them,
one jagged bolt even brushing the edge of the compartment
they were stuck in. He said that this bolt
burrowed its way through his skin and into the woman’s,
a tiny electric shock that fizzled up and fused their mouths together,
which could only be separated when, several hours later,
they were rescued from the wheel by a helicopter crew.
And I thought of how you always shied away from me seeing you naked,
of how stars are not useless unless we believe in the shooting kind,
how your shoulders rose like milk beneath my cupped palms,
and I always wondered, as I was tracing
what could be seen of you from underneath the covers,
if maybe you had been struck by lightning too,
the kind that leaves its owner with so many scars
that they can’t bear to reveal even one square inch of skin,
for fear it might be so transparent that their heart would show through.