In my seventh year
throughout the swelter of summer nights
in my attic bedroom,
it offered a cooling breeze at a price.
Each time you turned it on or off
it gave a jolt. An antique manufactured
between the Great Wars, that still worked
when we couldn't afford to replace
anything not broken.
Four black sculpted blades held
in an oscillating cage of wire petals
(with gaps wide enough for a fist)
attached to a motor balanced
on the thin neck of a heavy base
and tethered by a round Bakelite plug
at the end of a worn cloth braid.

When I was old enough
my big sister let me start it up
then told me shocks were cumulative,
too many and you'd be a goner.
Thereafter, I winced
at static in my hair
and felt the cold creep of panic
when friends revved-up
stocking feet on a carpet.
The fan was cause for impromptu prayers.
Please let this not be the one.
Whirling in the summer darkness
it sometimes let loose its own fireflies.

Late that August
I asked Dad, nonchalantly,
if it were true, Was electric build-up deadly?
Afterward the old GE disappeared,
replaced with a new avocado box fan,
window sized, covered with a white grate
too tight to fit a thumb through.
Nights got cooler, but
some of the mystery was gone.


From Miracle of the Wine: New and Selected Poems (Grayson Books, 2012).
Used here with permission.