Power Poem by Val Morehouse

________To the boys at Enron,
who taught us this poem.


In the noose of the vacuum filament
frost settles. Lights out.
Night slides over your shoulders.
If-onlys gather like raw wet pelts.

You have nothing to offer the match god.
Suffer darkness.
Let the measure of a candlewick be
your time machine.

Pile high anxiety on the hearth.
Will it light? Will it light?
You seek the lowest common denominator,
adding up a few dry needles

Seized from rain, leaves, a twig,
that knot or two of bark.
Your hellish little arson
discovers garbage

Wastebaskets inside out,
headlines savaged for the white
space between lines.
Trees stack like wooden aces

Cards played in your mind.
You give up six-packs and easter egg grass.
Throw in breath like a kiss
until it comes back hot

In color that cuts your shadow
out of the night. Elated you
season the hasty soup
with smoke and quiet satisfaction.

In the middle of the second bite
the light bulbs pop. The television starts babbling,
the dishwasher, that sob sister banging and weeping,
and the water heater chuckling like a clown.

Surrounded by sudden bright,
you feel like a victim, until you remember
the power of silence,
and sacrifice every fuse in the house.