It keeps raining while the sun is shining
grey clouds look Photoshopped over white puffs and blue sky
The deep drumming of thunder
like bass from a concert two miles away
The sun shines through cracks between clouds
shimmering through a spiderweb
illuminating select strands
in a cuneiform design
or some secret language
quivering with high intensity
the message flashing like a digital billboard
What is the world desperately trying to say?
so badly it has conspired the spider, the shape of moisture, the time of day
to project this specific notice
A cloud swallows the sun
and the web seems to disappear
The landscape looks like another country
Asides
In my dream, my name was Flori Terrence
an amalgam of both of my grandmothers (Florence and Terry)
both redheads, both writers
the source of my hair and my gift
I’m half of each of you
the Great Depression runs through my veins
a stockpile of canned goods- the cheapest brand- carefully monitored and restocked
homemade pickles
Velveeta, the generic off-brand of Wonder Bread, margarine
Italian ice, the Japanese restaurant on 86th Street
a housewife in a stagnant marriage
a freelance editor in Manhattan
hair in curlers, the same style worn for decades,
and lavender polyester pants that could only be called ‘slacks’
a loud voice and raucous laugh,
a people person
Easter baskets, Fourth of July cookouts and fireworks, Thanksgiving dinners, the unwrapping of Christmas presents
MOMA, the Whitney, Central Park, the zoo, South Street Seaport, Canal Street, the ballet
the candy drawer, playing Store, feeding ducks by the river,
passing along women’s magazines
the quizzes filled out
How Satisfied Are You in Life?
the score landing in the lowest category
molding imaginative animals out of clay, working the New York Times crossword puzzle, throwing casual dinner parties, snapping photos, bringing back souvenirs from Puerto Rico, Mexico, Ireland, Scotland
selecting one wing from a bucket of fried chicken
hugging so hard that it hurt
the end of every phone conversation a mantra
“I don’t know anything.
I never go anywhere
or see anyone
or do anything.
I just wanted to hear the sound of your voice.”
our words tiptoe around each other
gingerly turn doorknobs
for the thrill of finding one open
more than the surprise of what’s within
a soothsayer
raspy and dreamy-eyed
a monk in coarsely-woven layered robes
a brightly-colored bird
a just-discovered memory
we handle each other like porcelain statues
glossy foreign objects
easily breakable
too good to be true
seagulls overhead
above the roar of the tide
a rustle of wings
Wind sizzles through the tupelo like gossip
The comforting seesaw of frogs’ call and response
now and then skips its rhythm, an old record,
and the frogs bleat in unison like angry protesters
The tree looks under water, the way every part of it sways in slow motion,
unfurling in beautiful abstract designs like a drop of ink in a glass of water
Rain clanging down drainpipes, rain slapping the gentle river, rain ping-ponging the metal roof
A streetlight alights
reflects off every trilling leaf
the tree looks covered in frost
mist rising from the river looks like drifting snow
Three windows in a row lit up orange in the house on the hill
three watchmen
cozy in the summer snowstorm
A long train whistle layers over and under the rain, the frogs
the imagined winter storm
and the deepening night
Tonight’s sunset is in the shape of a mushroom cloud
except pink
echoes of the blast reverberate
muffled, deafening
seconds later, radiation emanates above it
pink bleeding into the blue of the sky
Whose job was it and why
to stand by and capture the horrific moment
of the world’s largest atomic bomb
the beautiful swelling, curling edges
as it vaporized the lives around it
life almost stands still
like when the air feels still, but is still moving
Minutes later, that portion of the sky is slate blue
and rectangular- an actual slate, a chalkboard
wiped clean of mushroom clouds and destruction
you would never know it had been there
A cardinal squawking from the closest tree
stops when I look right at him
as if he got his point across
the air suddenly feels cool
it’s like he was warning me
there’s only so much time
Sunset hides behind a cloud
the cloud becomes a giant, luminous dragon
breathing sunset fire
crackling the house next door into flame
the trees, the line of bushes
every one of them on fire
the air suddenly feels cool
the dragon becomes a silhouette, loses interest, turns away
A minute later, he is stretched out, sleeping
intricate bird calls turn to simpler chirps
even the trees seem to be resting
the scent of something floral marches through
it’s easy to feel loyalty to this army
the air suddenly feels cool
the dragon’s mouth hangs open and he begins to snore
his teeth elongate into fangs
he grows more ferocious the deeper he sleeps
What will he be by morning?
sweet clover, rich earth
scents from the prairie braided
into memories
I am not afraid
of the howl of the wind
the strength of my voice
staring at the wind
he pretends not to notice
the space between us