by Doug Paul Case

who cracked the joints
of my ribcage, expanding,

whose call kissed my ear,
the boy who stood

where lightning struck just
after ducking under

the café’s awning.
He pointed to fireflies

darting through rain
and the darkness

once illuminated
by the crash, the crush

of electricity
between our lips

and the sky.
I will pull his name

from my teeth, scar it
across my thigh,

because this was the boy
who burned through

my eyes’ clouds, to find
my only sundial,

waiting for his flash.