As the storm moved in, you marked the night
And later the night marked you. A biblical clap woke
The house to a spray of sheetrock: a powdered sprite
Sprung off the nailheads. Air flavored with ozone.
On the ceiling in the hallway, a halo
Grew orange around a fixture, aglow—
And Dad on the phone
Downstairs, and now shepherding the young ones
Out to shelter in the soaphouse, and Mom, who’s usually
Sharp as a crack, fumbling in the pandemonium
At the extinguisher—so you, small and spry,
Someways slither in
Up the crawlspace, and
Confront a burning fan.