we drank rain from sidewalks.
tongue to concrete. deadly thristy
from walking to mercury & back
in attempts to prove love.
that whole summer was about
confirmations. is the sun really
a pinwheel? is the window really a window?
are you my lover? is this water
laced with sugar?
is the umbrella real?
i taught you how to blink
& you taught me
where the weather came from.
you said your father was a cloud purchaser:
he carried pennies & fed them
to the dirt to barter for storms.
meanwhile, in the past, at the umbrella farm,
the children went to see them sprout
kneeled in the mud & noticed
tiny umbrellas as they peeked
through. some with wooden handles--
some cheap & plastic. april was such
a ratification. the umbrella we bought
needed more time in the soil.
turned inside out at the slightest noise.
we took turns. me saying, "here you
hold it" & you saying "no you."
the rain holding still in your hair
like jewels. the rain soaking through
my shoulders. a shiver entering
at the base of my spine. wanting
to want to hold your hand again.
yearning for a dry morning where the grass
was all dead fingers. you should have
called your father & told him
to plead for snow. beg on his knees
for a summer blizzard to hem us together.
rain is known for causing gospel.
not even the weather knows
what to do with blood. inside the apartment,
the umbrella wilted outside the door.
died & you blinked too many times
& i peered out the window all night.
at the umbrella farm, the newest crop
was too large to be sold. monsterous umbrellas
shadowing everything for miles around.