When I was in seventh grade,
I learned the basics of sewing.
The basics of how to stitch
things together in a way
that gave them a larger purpose.
I found ways to do that
with the small things
that found meaning with me
in the years that followed—
collecting them,
stitching them together,
to become part of my
larger purpose.

Books that left marks on the mind,
lyrics that realigned crooked feelings,
the magic in every corner of a flea market,
unconventional locations to kiss
a boyfriend.

Then, lightning struck that
sewing machine, while
I was mid stitch.
Smoke rose
from my unsuspecting skin.
With it, came a letter in a bottle.
And then another—
bright words and kind thoughts
that traveled up and out
from a heart as beautifully tired
as mine.
Paragraphs lined with
different kinds of love that
filled in all of the space
between my hundred stitched pieces.
Lightning struck again,
and again and again.
My smoking skin, humming electric—
my hands couldn’t type quickly enough
everything that I wanted to share.

I wrote it all.
I let it strike.
I loved its heat, its deliberate shock—
how it captivated from any distance,
and fascinated with its touch.

Lightning, though,
will always
find an exit.

It will always find
a way out and
into the ground.