Thunder

Dreaming each night of thunder

the small girl floated in the air.

The window by her bed

had an invisible ladder

to escape the flames of the burning house.

Between her bed and the wall

were bags of what she’d take

things she could sell, maybe,

on the road to some great adventure,

some deeply felt existence where fear

dissolved into home.

She wore her clothes

under her nightgown, so she’d be ready.

Before she slept she went over in her mind

the route she’d take down the roof,

leaping to the ground unharmed.

She poked through her bag, examining

each thing, deciding again

what was essential, but began to feel

there was nothing there

she could use, there was nothing anywhere

that would ensure her safe journey,

the disaster she waited for

had already occurred, she was too young

to hit the road alone, and there was nowhere

she knew of to go.

It must have been sudden,

the change from plans for escape

to resignation, to digging in for the long haul,

watching for signs everywhere that would mean

an end to the suffering.

“It’s time to begin your life,”

the signs would say, “go ahead and stop

being afraid, stop

hiding your face, slouching

against walls and in corners, hiding

behind your long hair.” She pretended

she was grown and nothing could harm her,

grew a bright shell

that despised and defended

weakness, a life-like shield

made from clothes that seemed

to protect her, a stance

and expression that prevented

attack, words so quick and clever

no one thought to wander behind them to see

who was there.

Still, she always slept in her clothes

and kept her bags packed

and all her favorite stuff close,

in case a family of gypsies or acrobats

gathered under her window

and called for her to come home.