Third Rail

My mother texts to tell me her phone buzzed at 3 a.m., warning her
of a potential tornado, and it’s only then I remember jolting awake
to the same alert. It’s how we connect now. Texts of weather,
headlines—emojis to fill in the blanks. Once in a while,
I can’t picture a time before this. Like after a storm when the air
turns green and the sun spins prisms, and you think to yourself,
how in God’s name could I have just been afraid.
She would drive us around the reservoir and speak of its water,
deeper than houses, black as pitch. Nothing but darkness
to strangle you if you fell in. I prayed to be good.
Prayed for her to floor the gas and get it over with.
Crouched down in the backseat and braced for impact.
When Metro-North installed the third rail down in Croton Falls,
four firemen appeared at that week’s morning assembly in the gym.
The Super 8 projector spun gauzy images of plastic dummies burning
on the tracks—700 electric volts hissing and raging inside.
I pictured my mother smashing dishes in the sink.
I pictured the bowl of rainbow sherbet I’d left out on the stoop
and wondered what colors would melt out of me.