My ambiguous relationship with rain
The last time I wet myself
I was tending my rabbits in the rain.
I couldn’t leave them, couldn’t not go,
so pissed myself as I passed them
ripped up grass through the bars.
And halfway across Europe, my father
steered us through a downpour,
though the week before we’d spent our words
petitioning God for good weather.
I mourn the rich-rained green of the garden.
The hostas drip from their chewed tips
and the roses rot brown on their stems.
But my son, who is not afraid of rain,
who refuses to carry coat or umbrella,
will come home, wet and strong.
You dream of logging off,
shoving your chair under the desk,
checking the empty drawers,
pouring the dregs onto the spider plant
then pushing up the ceiling,
climbing out for the last time.
And you dream of striding
to where the air is boundless,
crossing the stile, gaining elevation,
feeling the sweat leak under your skin.
You clear the flurry of talk and paper
as you near the hills.
And you have dreamt also of this:
the end of the final school day,
how you hurtled down the riverbank
and cast your books upon the water,
how you flung out your arms crying
I am no one’s, no one’s!