Even though scientists proved a few outliers had skewed the data,
I’m attached to the myth that people who have been struck by lightning
are more likely to get struck again, and since it’s such a good conversation starter,
I share it matter-of-factly, similar to when my husband announced
at my baby shower that he was suffering from Couvade syndrome,
and phones came flying out to google Couvade, and within minutes men
were nodding at each other now that they had a name for their ordeal,
and once all the shower games were played and gifts unwrapped,
my aunt presented my husband with a slab of cake and a bow,
and my husband kicked back in his lawn chair and forked a piece into his mouth
with gusto as deviled eggs refluxed into my throat every time the baby kicked,
but many years later I understand that my husband owning Couvade’s
was a fine thing - a good thing - like my nighttime mantra, You’re invincible,
as if my stitched-up heart throbs like Popeye’s triceps on spinach,
but when a wicked wind comes through the open window like a train,
it’s time to destroy the lie that once you’re struck you’re doomed to be struck again,
doomed to run barefoot across an open field, arms like antennae,
because the stories we tell ourselves are not the stories we tell others,
the stories we tell ourselves are forked and hot and turn the night sky violet,
and when that wicked wind bends saplings at the throat, it’s easy to believe
there is shelter beneath the biggest tree, but that’s another lie, similar to the wrongheaded belief
that to resuscitate with your soft mouth a heart struck into stopping will stop yours too,
as if dumbly watching lips blanch blue is an act of self-preservation rather than
a senseless tragedy, that what’s true is to drop to your knees and play god.