shower curtain 

i once saw my dad strangle a cloud.
white knuckles. rage.
he was on the roof. he was 
the size of a pill bottle
from where i stood in the yard. 
he didn't know i could see him.
today my mom says,
"you're just like him"
& all i can see is rain. rain 
with dead birds in it & rain
that turns copper on the ground. 
rain mistaken for blood. our bodies
are made up of mostly water.
i spend most days now as a cloud.
my father's hands could be 
very gentle. then, so strong.
i pressed down the strings 
on the neck of his guitar. 
singing, i used to wish i was 
a guitar so my father might
carry me into the church.
i was an outdoor child
in the way there are outdoor cats.
eating pizza crusts. barefoot.
his anger was usually latent.
i learned to be good at sensing it coming.
a thunder syrup & then roar.
trying to catch my breath. 
i remember once trying to fit myself
beneath the bed. i was a little cloud.
i rained billboards & thumb tacs.
tried my best to clean up 
any mess. the clouds outside called 
& said, "come, let's be kin."
so, i did. i climbed out the window
on the second floor. briefly, i flew.