Tesla's Daughter

Lynn Pattison

Tesla's Daughter

1.
In summer, the blue halo of St. Elmo’s Fire
on my shoulders high voltage tears apart air.
Sometimes just sparks at my heels, crackling.

2.
Vertebrae, ankle, skull. My bones
loosely stacked—a tower
of mismatched blocks.

3.
I was born at midnight.
Raging electric storm, big windows.
The lights flickered...

4.
Days without sun storms I quieted; felt normal. I studied
the wonders in the garden. Built a flying machine from silk
thread, half a dozen cecropia moths. Crickets
carried aloft, over my mother’s roses, in the hammock
of my Sunday handkerchief. They leaped, abandoned ship.
A tangle of wing and thread brought everything folding.

5.
Not everyone can hear the castrati singing in the hills.

6.
My lean-to of copper against the radio tower
has caused considerable concern.
The mayor’s son sneaks in at night, burns
when I take him in my mouth.

7.
Am I responsible for dead cattle, the problems
with the sheep. I don’t know. Some days, angry,
I throw bolts in random directions. I don’t care.

8.
The night the horses charged from the livery, ran crazy
through the streets, no one knew they felt the jolt
through their iron shoes.

Still, the sheriff looked right at me.

9.
They dam the rivers, push power
through meters, sell it like grocers peddling
air. Some day people will understand.
It is ours for the asking, like rain.

isbn 1-59661-023-9
31 pages/$9