last night a summer
storm came, cracking open
the black and blue sky.
you were sleeping and I was wide awake,
too warm in my cotton pajamas,
thinking of the emails in my inbox,
the bag of trash I forgot on the porch,
the weird rustling in the walls.
I wondered why thunderstorms never
showed up in the middle of the day,
say, at noon, or two-thirty
but then I remembered a vague time from before,
walking back to the car,
carrying our Thai leftovers from lunch.
a spicy red liquid puddled in the bottom of the plastic bag.
"Be careful, it's spilling,"
just before the sky flashed white and poured.
we peeled off our clothes
and draped them over a braided clothesline above the bathtub.
I wrung out my hair in the sink.
we made a fire
and ate the leftovers
and you admitted you loved summer storms.
you said you loved waking up to them in the middle of the night,
loved the thunder shaking the house,
loved the rumbling that moved through you.