after

someone says, again, that the smell 
after rain has a name.
we step careful beneath 
the tree branches. post downpour,
the soil opens its mouth to breathe
mist on the glass; one great big
tongue ululating under flip flops.
the word is petricor & i think that
it sounds too metallic-- like it
should describe the distance between
wind chimes or a sound that tin foil 
makes when you roll it our on
the cookie sheet-- i can't feel that
softness. i say that the smell reminds
me of the mellow under bellies of toads--
their pebbly skin. i'm eight again
in the porch lights as i cup one
in my hands-- his tiny pronged
foot wriggling-- pushing to leap out. 
i open my hands just a crack so that
the toad pushes his face out-- nostrils
blinking-- eyes full of metal. 
the word is too severe, no give to it,
petricor sounds like petrified--
like stunned & still. the moments
after are nothing like that:
the twilight of water where the sea monsters 
poke their heads out from gutters--
faces speckled with condensation--
the loch ness monster peering from
a pile of a damp leaves, great whites
thrashing cracks in the asphalt.
on the drive home i kept the windows
down so that the smell washed over me.
the word repeated itself in me--
like a perpetual fall down a well
growing deeper & deeper. i waited for 
the relief from impact but we all 
kept falling-- petricor petricor petricor
like a summing of a ghost who 
had exchanged it's name for legend.
petricor: petri meaning stone--
cor coming from greek myth, the fluid
flowing through the veins of the gods.
it all flowers through me & outside my
house in the open mouth-- i step
past a row of teeth. the toads scatter.
the lips are my own. they close. 
after tonight i will forget the
words we said & i will write a
story about how the rain made 
the edges of the road fall away. 
is the rain made of metal?