Late Night Supper

by Kerry Trautman


After a long long hot spring workday
with my husband, some
sweat-stressed hollering in the work truck,
I flipped on the backyard light,
stirred mushrooms,
red pepper hunks—
oiled on a slip of foil—
and Italian sausage links
on the grill.

The neighbors all had finished
making love, were now
brushing teeth, contemplating
whether to keep windows open overnight,
or shut them against maybe storms.

Heat lightning pulsed across
eastern cloudbanks.
I sniffed the air for new ozone, for
if I needed more garlic,
watched thunderless lightning—
woeful without its rumbles—
strained to hear spring peepers over
my sizzle,
to see dark flight shadows in
the blackblue clouded sky.

I wondered if I should go in
and tell my husband
supper was nearly done,
or let the scent through the window
tell him for me.

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