Weather

Tonight thunder hangs on the sky
like God’s underbelly.

We soon forget the deep rubbings
of crickets in the scorched night

and God becomes kabuki
in a white mask, her performance

crackling over the hushed audience
of earth. Lightning cloaks

the black bones of night,
fastens the hidden folds of stars.

The night my father died, I’d watched
for storms, some cosmic reflection

of his demise, this human being
of gigantic proportions, now unscripted,

consigned to the wings, insensible body
shrouded in sheets of electric white.

But no tempest, just tropical heat
in the wrong hemisphere,

mute claustrophobia, little wooden
flutes of humidity.

Don't miss the best from America

Sign up for our Newsletter to get the Jesuit perspective on news, faith and culture.

The latest from america

The ruling appears to confirm fears among some faith leaders that courts are reining in the definition of religious practice.
Michael J. O'LoughlinMarch 22, 2017
There are truths that can only be shared by way of testimony, and these are the ones that matter most to us.
Terrance W. KleinMarch 22, 2017
Breslin, the legendary New York reporter and columnist, died last week at 88.
Joseph McAuleyMarch 22, 2017
Three to serve as Joseph A. O’Hare, S.J., Postgraduate Media Fellows
The EditorsMarch 22, 2017