SPRING ELEGY |
When February finally gives way to March, I feel every door in the house fall from its jamb, feel the sleet soften into rain. I watch you hop out of bed to go stand by the window, looking at the rain slapping the road in the early morning light. I ghost toward you, thinking maybe we’re meant to be sea creatures—the way we watch the water fall and want to taste it on our tongues. I think about the water pooling in the potholes, about how many times I’ve wanted to drown. And then I hear the roosters’ calls, let myself inhale the lemon blossoms wafting through the cracked-open window. And then I wrap my arms around your waist, mouth the flowers sprouting on your shoulder: jasmine, hibiscus, lavender, skin petal-smooth, the rolling fields in front of us: the tractors, the trucks, the houses wilting in this wetness. Yes, I also think about the overflowing lake, all the times it asked me for a kiss. And, yes, I once wacked a wasp’s nest with a bat because I couldn’t bear the thought of the insects dying slow deaths, drowning during the rainy months. I learned I can’t withstand their sting, swelling so bad some hiker had to take me home. But that was then. Today, I tongue the warmth of your neck and think maybe another month of wetness won’t be so bad. I inhale your hair and think maybe I’ve finally found a suitable depth. |