The first sign was the flash
that lit your face; the muffled
crash that had us clattering cutlery
on plates; the dash for the car.

You were in the driving seat.  I didn’t know
how you could see the road beneath
the rising tide.  The whining of wipers
left me blind.  Once home,

I ran upstairs to press my nose against
the panes of glass, made circles of steam.
Uprooted seedlings – magenta neon –
painted the sky in shades of bubblegum.

The rain drummed its final solo.
In the held breath of silence that followed
the sky glowed a bruised yellow,
holding me still in a crackling cocoon.

Something crashed to an unseen floor
pounding the boards with fists of rage
so I laid down and prayed
though unsure what for.