DEAD RAIN

Soaked by sudden storm, rain saturating the apples 

of our cheeks, there was a time for dripping hair. 

You and I, howling while running for shelter. 

And after drying each other’s shivering figures,

making soup. There was a time for that, too,

warming numb faces against steaming bowls, 

letting the blood return, painting us pink again.

But time does not keep

and cannot endure.

It must make room for other downpours,

new bodies to fill its vacancies, fresh forms.

I run with someone else now, and before the sky pours

we’re already home. But sometimes,

when there is no water to wring from my clothes

and my hair still looks the way it did when I left 

I remember making soup, heat rising calmly

to meet us, all of our leaking laughter— 

you and your still-wet smile.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: