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.