A moaning rumble,
bleak light, bare skin,
300 kilovolt fingers reaching,
urgently seeking
something to touch
before the current dissipates,
a clean connection
of lethal conduction,
landing on a plush bed of cheek.
Wind lashing,
wetness pouring
through the window screen,
gathering on the floor in
an unexpectedly apt puddle.

Jamie Haddox writes poems and crushes dreams. She tends to bury her decapitated darlings in the pet cemetery. Her typical Saturday involves youth hockey, crosswords, and Law & Order. Jamie enjoys spiced rum and a good, hot mustard.

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