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.