Glissading down toward
pottery,
cerise skyscrapers
being steeped
into reflection-
the seeing glass of
bereaved eyes and
heartsick sounds
elucidate
every teardrop refused
by those
whose memories are
commanded to stay
in cement, and not be
brought back up.
The girl outside your
mailbox has no words
to deliver,
only movement from a
place her eyes still
can't fix upon,
for the air is so simple
in its truest dignity.
She inclines her chest,
lips a star catcher,
emerging as the waist
of rain's first cataract.
Eventually, drapes
will not ensconce her
and women will face
the standing
of their expectancy,
when heavy men and tiny
perspectives arrive home-
to find their women have
gone out, unabashedly,
without dinner made or
tables set among wrinkled
lilacs and lilies,
to be their own.
And they, like I, will not
only show nine positions
in the rain,
but lead its secrecy,
sans a second set of arms,
