I’m staring at your thumb underneath the night umbrella
somehow it glows
in the downpour of a night
that steams and reeks of home.
Silently, I try to calculate the space we share
in cubic feet, wet with gutted streets
the circumference of this piece of black skin strapped to metal
the circumference of the bleached out moon
and your thighs at night.
You are all quiet suffering creatures
dropped down onto pedestals and chipped away at
red pieces of meat, cut
by droplets of water
and sharpened knives at dawn.
There are chemical differences between different tears
and I have my suspicions
about the stuff dripping down on us from the maple trees.
That they wait until we need to open up
There was a time, I tell you
when I couldn’t open my umbrella without tears.
Nowadays it’s mostly trips to the local 7-Eleven and gardening.
I scour self-help books on fairies
for a blueprint of a good trap.
I’m told to smear honey into bottles and
hang them upside down
on low branches.
to never initiate body contact
with someone who I don’t want falling in love.
Then the rain washes the honey down
into the dirty part of my cemented yard
and I find myself
taking too many showers
and using too many products on my hair.
The wind is black when it rains
but at night you can’t hold onto me.
And I was instructed not to initiate.