I kept my appointment with Rain.
We met in the wrong room. Upstairs.
Rain was . . . melancholy. She rinsed
a naked bulb that hung itself
on white wire. It ran out of light,
she said, spreading her fall
from the rooms unfathomed sky.
Rain enquired if I’d brought questions.
I was allowed four. Four only.
Before I could deny it, she pressed
her sodden lips to mine.
Not now, she said. They are come.
The sash windows unlaced their gowns
so that ghost ships, dragging nets
filled with memories absolved
by Rain, could sail through them.
And as we watched, Rain said,
These are your questions:
Why is it they hide in there?
Why is it they turn from me?
Is it to the same place they go?
And is it the same story they weather?
Rain said, There is no tenderness
in the absence of joy, and, in the absence
of joy, even songbirds squabble.
When there was nothing left to say,
Rain enveloped me; her hair lay on my face
like tears, and inside my closed mouth,
hummingbirds flew backwards into my throat.
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