Red Lightning
A sprawl of light takes over the night’s horizon.
The authorities are quick to shoot down theories
that it’s something otherworldly or problematic.
There isn’t very much below us or above us—
it turns out we were short-sighted once again.
Talking to no one—or else myself—I say,
“I’m going to have nightmares tonight.”
But, then, this isn’t about me. It’s about us.
All of us. We’re in this damn thing together.
It seems to me that we forget that these days.
She suggested we sit and watch the country
burn and destroy itself—the way we knew
it always would. I guess I hadn’t realized
that it would be televised. But there it was.
For a moment, I think a little about the things
I would save if I could save them. Even though
it’s pointless. Even though they’re already gone.
Scott Silsbe was born in Detroit. He now lives in Pittsburgh. His poems have been collected in three books—Unattended Fire, The River Underneath the City, and Muskrat Friday Dinner. He is also an assistant editor at Low Ghost Press.