Thunderstorms

“My soul is split in pieces”, she said,

overturning our unfinished game of chess.

“You could kill me with a shout

at the water’s edge. You could

kill me with a clematis flower.

It is called The Queen of Climbers”.

Her hands rested on well-toned thighs.

“It’s thunderstorm weather”,

she said absently.

I told her I loved her.

“Love is an occult power

that should be exercised responsibly.

You wield it like a billyclub”.

We drifted noiselessly just then,

two corks on the ocean,

each in our own scoop

of sunlight.

“Perhaps we’ll meet again”,

I called.

“Let’s meet at the horizon”.

And so, with the winds gathering

and miles of dark water

beneath my feet,

full of her

and full of the occult magic

of thunderstorms and love,

I began to swim

and I began to sing.