It’s been three months since the last drop of rain
I.
the seagulls circle the empty
parking lot, thinking gravel
can melt into liquid
a thin squirrel carries a dry
nut across the field, its body
crouching in greed
grass has become painfully
dry – paper brown silhouettes
sticking up to the heat
noisy magpies peck at food
forgotten on the courtyard;
sneering at the shiny ravens
II.
my skin is mutinous, lost
in a terrene that it has never
thought existed
it lusts for the nine days of
drought, and nine days of
water, so much water
which cleansed stray dogs
on the street; once, I saw them
swim in the flood
the yowling cats were quieted,
their arrogance stomped on by
the thunderstorms
and the maya birds, when light
seeped through banana trees,
sang from their bellies
III.
yet, when the clouds roared
and gaped at our thirst, they
unleashed a familiar rhythm
it doesn’t change – the scent
of the land’s exhale when it again
tastes the tang of rain
that first drip on the arid grass
still brings the birds to sing, and
when I close my eyes, I’m certain
that no time has passed. My skin
has stretched across an ocean
and I’m here and there, both.
Turning
Orchards scrape putrid
fruits from dehydrated
trees. Smoke won’t let up –
the sun fashions an eerie
orange eye.
Fruit flies buzz outside
buildings, stick to sweaty
skins. A fat one slithered
in my room; not even
the cat paws it.
My eyes water, a remnant
of the Pisces moon, or perhaps
the Valley is finally getting to me.
My chest hums, an overinflated
balloon –
I have yet to sleep since
the morning you left
rest is possible only when
I can again see mountains.
The next fire may be too close
and the sirens keep me awake
I fear waking up in a bed of flames,
this same bed, no way out,
begging to see you one last time.
I still have everything here,
except for you. Haze
persists and the sun
raptures, but there we’ll
be above all ruin –
sharing sunsets, kissing
in woods, picking cherries.
Image Credits: Katie Tegtmeyer
