Saturday, April 6, 2013

After the Rain

They hardly spoke
to each other afterwards.
He gave himself over
to drink and patriarchy
and writing things down.
She moved through the hours
busy with the usual things.
But, the hours weren’t the problem
for her. It was the minutes
of remembering and knowing
exactly what had happened.
So, she’d hum.

Otherwise, her mind flashed
with tree trunks and boulders
riding waves into skulls and abdomens
and babies whose final babbles
were drowned by the tardy pleas
of their now believing parents.
She used to wonder
how the fine young man
they’d hired to help tar the ark
ended up feeling God’s love.
Was it as quick as God’s wrath?
Or did his smile fade slowly
in a crush of mud against his chest
or after a final deep breath
right before his lungs made room
for the wet holy cleansing
of disobedience from earth?

At the beginning, her husband mistook
the gentle buzz from her chest
as the acceptance of grace,
asked her to read his sheepskin account.
She read and insisted upon one revision,
“You take my name out of there.”



Verse Wisconsin - April 2013
Audio of "After the Rain"

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