Bromide
       

But there have been too many
answers—and none right. Thunder

seemed answer, lightning
question, but maybe both were both at once.

That so quickly
they could be, then could not, distressed him

but impressed me. We put paper bags
over our heads, walked barefoot

out into the storm. The bags yielded to rain
and plastered our faces.

We pressed holes in them to breathe.
I peeled mine off so I could see

and led him to the wheelbarrow full of water,
told him to lean over.

If pulp hadn’t shielded them, his eyes
might have tried to answer rainand

wind-troubled questions in their reflection
as I, in my way, like lighting I thought,

had my way.

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Copyright © 2012 Jeremy Halinen All rights reserved
from American Poetry Journal
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission