I Dress Myself In Rain

Today I made my body out of water
then went out and danced in myself;
let the ripples wrinkle my skin
making me old and young and old
again. So freeing, I thought,
that I can dance to the thunder
until it dies, or lie down in the river
and become it.

Music Lessons

Remember when rain was romantic?
Rain used to play music outside my window
like John Cusack without the boombox,
used to climb in through the busted window
screen and shake my muse awake on warm
September nights. It would speak French,
or whatever language is supposed to be romantic,
words I didn’t understand anyway. Rain taught me
to play piano with its arms around my waist,
its chest pressed to my back, its fingers
over my fingers. Rain used to kiss me
like you used to kiss me in the rain.

Rain used to lie with me, chest to back
like it was teaching me to play piano
and sing me to sleep on cold September nights.
Or was that you? You (it) ran down the street
with me, caressed my legs when I was done,
showed me what it meant to be exposed
to the core. It (you) touched every inch of me
until the touch was more familiar to me
than my own skin, until I peeled off my clothes
and became clean. Remember when we were romantic?

The worst part of winter is counting down the days
to the first good storm, water rushing down
the gutters, sky screaming thunder, lightning
like fireworks–run with me again,
when it comes.

Between Me and I

“Imagine if music
could sound like this,” you said
as small hail pelted the
sunroof.

I huddled in the passenger’s seat
and watched the glass
waiting for cracks.

When the hail stopped
and the rain quieted
to a whisper, you listened
as if it was speaking just for you.

“Close your eyes,” you said as
you did.
               I didn’t.