The Blank Sky

We were driving home, and lightning
ripped the night sky in the west
along its invisible black velvet seams.

We turned on the radio, and the weather
service in Lincoln—we’d just passed it—
warned of storms and high winds.

All of this is true. Later I saw the metaphor
of seams. We’d come from an exhibit
of fiber art, silk, velvet, and tulle

sewn together in collage, with buttons
and paper clips, candy wrappers
and stamps, ironed and stitched into quilts;

scarves hand-dyed, jackets with pockets
and belts, stamped with the gingko
and Japanese maple leaves

of the artist’s yard, the lilies and iris
and daffodils of her garden. Two women
sewing their lives into art

on body and wall. This is not the lie.
That night the storm killed a family in Iowa
while we slept safely in our beds.

Is it a lie or the truth that I can’t remember
when or if I thought the weather
was punishment for something, that God

or the gods looked down displeased
at someone with earthly power,
or the powerless me, and sent a whirlwind?

And if David brought a plague to Israel,
by choosing one of God’s punishments,
or by census taker spreading a virus,

is there such a parallel today, a Liar
bringing us a pandemic of hate and fear,
spreading it by misinformation,

or is this as far-fetched as myth or superstition?
My husband remembers a dark,
glowering sky, the feeling of menace

or threat before a storm, when he was a child.
We were innocent as children.
That is still not the lie.

— Babs