When I was seven and a half I hated dentists and grape flavored candy, 

and the dry springy feeling of pressing cotton balls in between my fingers, 

So I’d linger, in front of the television and screen door, 

I’d watch lightning crack and vultures lure,

Imagine swallowing a lightning bolt like a string, would it sting? 

Push through your tongue like a sewing needle?

Like A cushy tomato in a drawer with a thimble? 

Or would it sour and sweeten As a lemon drop would?

Prickling my throat as a citric fruit should,

I felt time move behind me, suns rise and milk curdle,

My back hunched like a turtle, feeling never so mortal,

A childlike stare out a window, when lemon cake was sharp and thunder would roar.

Seven and a half years later my tongue still feels sore.