Brooklyn Baggett

The candlelight wasn’t ours. 
We had no claim to it.
We only borrowed it for a while as
the thunderstorm lashed the windows,
snatching us into darkness.
There we huddled cross-legged, still
waiting for the waiting to end. 
And I studied each of you 
as you flashed and flickered— 
ever shifting flames—
one after the other, long shadows
of nervous smiles rounding out the circle.
With each flash of lightning
we counted in hushed voices…        one mississippi…       
                 two mississippi— 
fearful we’d wake the tornados.

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