one hundred words for rain

It’s the kind of build up that slants into my window
the shape of its sound
makes you forget everything you wanted to do
two minutes ago…

The kind of separation that makes glaciers carry
the spirit of “stop crying”

Kind of place where all the children wear bangs now
where monuments block the sun
and everyone seeks refuge
in the shadows of commerce
making sex with the sculptors of politics

It’s the kind of sex that sparks a thunderstorm
Makes you shout all the surnames of god
When everyone is off to take a beating
And the baby drives the father home
Kicks the donkeys faster

And all of this becomes part of the dust in mourning
the baby pulls at your hair and your adornments
lets you know that water, care, and food are most important

Everything diamond once covered in protective film
and oceanic blood—
the viscera—a lens
the film—a symptom of millions

Create, demolish, multiply

Separate, mother from mother until
babies lose their brothers
and the word is dropped from language
Replace it with another

Take the skin of my eyes
like her dress with ruffles and dirt
Give her a whip of frayed sugar cane
Give her a head like river rock
with dry feather and blonde atop
And morning people and evening people
on the sidewalk are like water in the end
fighting themselves with umbrellas
Because the sky is still hungry
Still rejecting all the things that we do.