Discharge

The wool of the rug is a battery for the bone,

collecting a charge from the friction of my feet.

I’m walking through the house in a world of my own,

waiting for the moment when the two poles meet.

I reached for the freezer in the grocery store aisle,

and a blue snap of light jumped straight to the skin.

It’s a sharp, little bite that doesn't leave a smile,

a reminder of the pressure that’s gathered within.

You can’t see the tension until you touch the steel,

and the air gives way with a pop and a sting.

It’s a brief, jagged lesson in how it must feel

to be holding the spark of a volatile thing.