About Rage, or Rain

The crack inside the wash, where snakes rest,

some flowers grow there, or weeds, which

will flower. It hasn’t rained. Then it did.

Somewhere else, we run through the parking

lot, laughing. Do not turn your eyes back. I think

 

About rage. How once I held a cantaloupe like a baby

for hours in a prairie. I prayed how little girls might

pray: to be good, to understand the current inside,

how to contain it. The wash where snakes nest,

standing over it now, where my cantaloupe crashed.

 

We sit on the porch because inside you a storm

waits. About rage, or rain—you can pray for it

to be contained, but, eventually it flowers us

together. Either we let the snakes out, or

between we meet because we have to beat

them out of each other. Do not turn your eyes.

 

Back to back, we watch the wash swell. One of us

cries, the other bleeds because they have to.

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