May you know lightning
in the heart of a snowstorm,
with terror and soothing
all at once, a coppery taste
faint on your tongue’s muted
surprise, as the thunder wraps
your core in the secret language,
dropping down into vibrations
you may never want to feel,
but the heart has always known.
May it flash open something
within you, cracking fully wide
the cage of your soul’s silence,
birthing your heart-rooted wings,
as blinding as the storm you fear.
There are spots I search out on your body,
the nest in your shoulder, the saddle of your hip,
the small sweep of your back, your wrists,
where, when I rest my head, my world exhales
and finally falls away at the end of the day,
when my mind is inspired and clarified, splendid
in a prolonged instance of finest working order.
But when I shift it fades a bit, so I hold on,
stilling myself, reaching back in for the language
I only hear when half-curled into your perfection.
Larry D. Thacker is an Appalachian writer and artist. His poetry can be found in past issues of The Still Journal, The Emancipator, Motif 2, Full of Crow, Kudzu Literary Magazine, Country Grind, The Southern Poetry Anthology, O’ Words Anthology, Volume VI: Tennessee, Mojave River Review, Fried Chicken and Coffee, The Moon Magazine, Pine Mountain Sand & Gravel and Appalachian Heritage. He is the author of Mountain Mysteries: The Mystic Traditions of Appalachia and the poetry chapbook, Voice Hunting. He serves as Associate Dean of Students at Lincoln Memorial University.