Where the Wind Turns the Rain to A Many-Tailed Lash

Where the Wind Turns the Rain to A Many-Tailed Lash

Out here,
where the wind turns
the rain to a many-
tailed lash the trees groan and shudder
under,

she walks
because at home
she’d only hear all night,
in the wind-driven rhythms of
the rain

falling
on the porch roof,
long-remembered movements
of waltzes and tangoes danced once
upon

the nights
when she’d never
miss the stars or the round
white moon reflected in the black
river.

What if,
she thinks, the black
river flowing here has
always flowed through her; the constant
dark stream

of her
is rain even
in sunlight (when it swells
and overflows, sends trickling out
long, thin

dark strands
to wrap around
her ankles, draw her down
and encase her in a layer
of mud

the sun
might dry and bake,
leave her in a fragile
shell for some archaeologist’s
hammer)?

Leave her
walking here, heels
unheard under the rain—
the river flows on, flecked with wind-
torn leaves.

About John MacKenzie

I'll mumble for ya. Poetry, plus most things quantifiable: science, neuroscience, memory, epistemology, baseball. And so on.
This entry was posted in Art is lies, Cinquain, New poems, Poem tweets, Poetry, The Moon, The Wind and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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