The Shock

I reach for the door handle

and the air splits open.

A spark—blue, quick, mine—

I almost don't see it.

My hand pulls back.

The hair on my arm stands up

like it's trying to leave.

For a second I feel the charge,

the small violence of two things

meeting at the wrong time,

the way the world reminds you

that everything is trying to push away

from everything else.

I touch the handle again, slower.

No spark this time.

But my arm remembers.