Knoxville afternoons in summer, lightning on the air.
The horses whinny, nervous; the chickens roost.
Our chain-link fence is rusty. I like to taste it—
that metallic clean I imagine to be the flavor
of lightning. My brother was hit once, carrying
a metal bucket to water the animals. It burned
his arm, and left a funny taste in his mouth.
Mother says I have always s**ed on spoons,
licked lampposts, iron grates, j**elry.
She goes crazy about the germs.
She says I do it because of what she calls iron-poor blood
and it's true—there's no rust in my skin at all,
dull and transparent as wax paper.
I run around the yard for hours, chasing the lightning,
tracing those fractal lines in the sky with my fingers
as the smell of ozone drives the dogs crazy.