Before the Late February Rains


Sydney says understanding life is a little like

pulling a bucket of water out of a river and saying you understand the river,

and I wonder if I can take refuge in that. Two days ago

I got a ride in a Lyft and someone

on the radio said there’s an atmospheric river

on the way, and I thought they were joking.

Turns out that’s a thing. That night, I pouted

at dinner and played the woe routine. No

reason I can think save some antennae

in my head bent. I don’t want to be unsummonable.

I don't want to have to oblige

my cauliflower heart to shed its coat of armor. That night

I thought I wanted a silo, to take comfort in

the anonymity of a field. Tonight, with the rain

coming down on my skylight, I’m sure I want a green house,

where I can keep by the body’s hours. Coil inward. Grow hot.

And when the door opens and you come in, there’s this sound

of the kid a few houses down laying into a piano, of chickadees

hopping in the rain, of stray cats with heartworm mewling in the street.