Burnt Willow

The lightning took the transformer at four

and left the apartment hollow as a bone.

I fumbled through the junk in the bottom drawer

feeling small and very much alone.

I found a stick of charcoal, thin and dry,

a piece of burnt-up willow from a class.

I marked the wall where the moon begins to lie

behind the smear of rain against the glass.

It leaves a dusty shadow on my skin,

a blackness that the water won't erase.

It’s how the quiet dark starts moving in

and drawing lines across a tired face.