I want to say it has rained for weeks.
Rain, such an easy metaphor for grief.
All those stages, storms
spinning up from distant dust—
emotional whack-a-mole.
Aren’t we all equal parts tender and not?
What about clouds of irrational hoopla
creeping unbridled up the spine,
anchoring inside the throat,
lodging countless bids to break free—
one careless slip loosing a shriek
of crazed birds skyward?
Nights, I replay footage—
time travels torn from my marrow,
mirages gone rogue and sour,
curse the wisps of nostalgia I cannot touch.
I wear my mother’s predilections,
my sister’s thirst, answer
to the hunger of being left behind,
Hard as I try, I cannot love these storms,
their beaded duplicity of air
wagging a wet finger in my face.
Death convolutes what’s ill faring,
the creek bitter cold with last year's snow.
I can’t stop holding my breath.
