What makes a poem?


Please can someone tell me if they see a poem here?

I am not versed, if you’ll pardon the pun, on some of the ‘new poetry’ but honestly the poetic value of the piece here completely eludes me!

After the model is struck by lightning, she becomes really good at yoga. She teaches classes at the small studio by the harbor and afterwards has long talks in the parking lot with her students. She sees the way they stare at her, like any minute something might happen. And they all ask the same questions; they want to know if the current made her body bend better, or if she can feel things about the future. But all she knows is that she was struck by lightning and then she wasn’t. Sometimes she wishes it had done what it was supposed to do, but she has never said this out loud. Her boyfriend makes jokes at parties about how the television reception is clearer now, or how he’ll stand away from her when they walk in the rain. She doesn’t really like him very much anymore. In horror movie storms, skinny bolts of lightning walk across the sky with the shuddering legs of a yearling, but she knows that’s not how it really is. She remembers how it pushed against the night and lit up the sky’s nervous system before it hit her. She remembers how it singled her out. In class a woman who was attacked by a shark shows her a scar that starts at her calf and gets wider as it winds up her waist. It’s the first map of lightning she has ever seen and she can’t turn away. The frayed fault line is like a fossil of electricity, evidence of a fever. In it she recognizes the turn and rip of the current, the break of a bite from nowhere—


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