It is about to rain. A martin dips under an eave.
The clouds lower, the air hangs heavy.
I hear the first fat drops and remember
A sudden kindness, small as a grain of sand.
I can’t tell the meaning of her outstretched hand,
Or read its lines. Thunder claps, that gorgeous sound.
I am implicated in every wisp of her hair.
Our bodies chafe and redden.
That night over the hot fan I hear her quiet voice
And feel my skin prick suddenly at the sound,
Startled from a dreamless hell.
She sings gently. To whom I cannot tell.
Cover image by Diego Duare Cereceda.