afterlives

when there's dry thunder like
this i imagine that there's storms
getting lost wandering off to a different plane--
the afterlife for weather-- where the hurricanes
go when their spirals come loose--
the untying of shoelaces-- the turn of
a pinwheel. this particular sound is the
storm from fifteen years ago when the
lightning formed the veins of our father's
legs & the thunder snake bit our ankles.
the clouds are behind the wall paper--
up the stairs-- kneeling in the ceiling lights.
it is a little known fact that the 
spirits of storms are the ones responsible
for power outages-- convincing whole houses 
to open their mouths-- electricity
set free like cockroaches into the yard.
i feel the carpet because underneath 
the cloud is standing upside down--
an underworld body-- he has a suite press
& hanging on the closet door. he is a bible
salesman. lights flicker & we gather around
the lanterns. i ask you if you have
any candles & you say no. i like the 
flicker so i teach you how to ignite
your thumbs. this all reminds me of the apostles 
in the upper room-- the gothic columns &
the prayers for the coming of jesus so soon.  
i feel bad for them thinking that he would
rise again so quickly. the coming again
of storms & gods is a process not easily
understood. the best you can do is open
the windows & beckon the storms back
out of purgatory. i see the cloud sulking 
up the staircase-- hand on the banister.
i ask why he insists on pounding the walls
today. he gives into a drizzle-- droplets
on the front windows. sometimes i try 
to cry & all the comes out is the ache 
of typhoons. they whisper inaudibly--
you ask what language that is but you
won't let me take the matches to your tongue.
this is how we learn to speak. on days like
this when the thunder insists on solitary 
tantrums i follow it down deep inside--
i take a pairing knife & cut a slit
in the wall paper. the house on franklin
street has new owners but the same paisley
prints in the kitchen. the openning
is the size of a change purse but lets 
me in easy. our bodies contract. 
i wander until i come to a place where
it's down-pouring & my thoughts are read aloud
by the hurricane gales-- ripping out 
old earrings & putting them back in again.
i came back here so that i could remember
that even the weather has a memory--
in god's vinyl disks on the book shelve   
am i a divot or a disk? the thunder has 
a fat tongue that becomes a snake. 
it makes a gravel-puddle of me. 
i ask if the they're all looking for
an afterlife & they ignore me & go on. 
i'm not either.