Martha Stewart Claims She Has Been Struck
By Lightning Three Times
Some people attract electrical things.
The first time I was in the kitchen washing
dishes when it sizzled into my stomach
with a single silver stroke. The lightning
flower still blooms faintly from my navel.
The next time it hit, I was watching the storm
gaining strength as it rolled in, centering
itself over my home. I was on the telephone;
my teeth played like the keys of a xylophone.
Finally, adjusting chairs in the garden, the spring
day giving way to an evening shower, I was racing
against the thunder. This time the electric fire
blazed through my feet to the ground.
Now my body burns hotter than the sun, a question
of impossible physics: how can this skin remain
intact, containing molten tissue without a rapid
evaporation of its organs, its muscles? Everything
has changed now, my hands no longer my most
trusted tools: muffin batter bakes within my glowing
palms on the way to the oven; leaf wreathes explode
into flames, scorching the lace runner on my dining table.
My body burns through my clothes, smoke escaping
from every loose-stitched seam.