Waken from a thick sleep to a sound
you can’t remember. Listen:
dissecting
noises in the night: tick, drip,
sigh, creak, swish,rattle, drummm. Syrup-slow, the memory:
thunder and your red tin roof.
RAIN.
Your sheet’s still poised midair, a
giant wing,
by the time your feet hit floor.
Your brother’s
feet are thrumming down the stairs,
sliding
hiss around the corner
landing. He’s left
the front door open. The mineral
smell
fills you before you’re even off
the porch.
Slap barefoot down the steps,
one-two, staring
to the far-off streetlight, where rain
glitters
orange in a cone beneath. Quicksilver
on your eyelashes, nightgown clinging
to your hips, you dance with your brother
through the rain, mouths open,
laughing, drunk,
really expecting to hear the earth
sigh.
The tops of the trees perform with
you
the wet green shimmy in the wet
green air.
Drought’s over. Who cares how far
til morning.
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