You wake up to a bolt of lightning

as your son. You wake up & he’s asleep

inside a cloud. You wake up

& he’s the color of exhaust, shaved clean

with electricity. I guess it doesn’t happen

exactly like that, not quite so suddenly.

But you remember, reaching out

for Earth, how sparks flew from his eyes.

Now, he rumbles to the kitchen, rumbles

to his car. He coughs & coughs & coughs.

It’s like there’s always been more to him

waiting just outside the window. Multitudes

of flash & fanfare, of roof-trembling scribbles

splintering the night.

One day, he sails off while you are sleeping.

You grow to hate blue skies, the sun.

You curse every summer day.

& then, you wake up to a crash

that nearly throws you from the bed.

You wake up to the softest pattering.