are you rain,
she says.
yes, yes, I am.
how did you know?
I say.
“my grandmother was rain.
Flash Flood.
You.”
she wants to know what my rules are
so she can break them.
break brake bake devour.
in the mailbox is an envelope full of petals
I decode them one by one.
have you ever awoken
in a light house,
she says.
no, I say.
wet.
and nodding head
House of light,
She says.
HOUSE OF LIGHT,
I say.
flash flood.
mad rush.
us.
in that house of light.
but I can only think of the Moon
and how it’s always in my sky.
even in the clear cut black
of crystal night
dutiful soldiers,
my waters stand and rise
current pulling
favoring Moon’s
unrelenting
shift
shape.
I can wait
more than a fortnight
for sun to beam
at its crescent
its half full
its shadow shifty
slow climb
to godsmacked
moonlight.
nights
that certify
with see
what the body knows.
the body always knows.
Moon holds her
cards just so.
“I’ll let you see
just this much
of me”.
rush rush.
how I’d love
to rush
mad
rush.
She.
break brake bake
devour
feel the whoosh
the thrust
of water
in the heart canal.
yet,
I am more faithful
than I ever intended to be.
my body is an ocean
perpetually pulled
tide
give and take
of cool wet
that breathes
in.
out.
still.
these waters have shuffled
side to side
traversed great distance
to kiss
a foreign shore
and still they bend and rise
obedient.
Moon’s voiceless call.
beckoning
of light.
all the stars
bent in prayer
holding torches
that press
themselves bright
and valiant
candles scattered
around Mary’s virgin skirt.
a vigil.
held hope
for nights
moon shines
that relentless
Gleam.
all things
at her will.
me,
the animals.
we wait.
darkness
like a shawl.
then,
a thunderous return,
animals call
even they
lack faith.
steadfast company
long hidden from view,
they cry
me too
me too
me too
where was the evidence
of you.
right there
in your body,
Moon says.
though she never
need speak.
the body knows
what the mind forgot.
the body knows.
gentle.
gentle.
listen.