The morning begins
with sunlight filtering through
the slits of the blinds
& another bad dream
of the forest turning to flame.
Raindrops drum against the roof,
christening the shingles
while I lie alone in bed,
waiting for words to mean something
again. Because what can writing do?
Because it doesn’t stop someone
from setting fire to a couple’s
home, from burning both men alive.
Because, like us all,
it so easily burns. Like the skin
I tongued at the throat’s hollow—
that morning salt my favorite flavor.
& nothing spells spring like my hands
turning to birds as the sun
sinks behind a cumulus, hands
flitting around flowering blooms
of hair. These blazing hands the way
May begins as rain spatters the grass
outside. & what does it matter
I could drown? So
what if the sea scares
me. I’ve always been a swimmer.
& anyway, don’t you think
there’s something about the way the rain soaks
us? We can’t help
but angle our eyes toward that stone sky.
We can’t help but look heavenward, wet
& wanting more.