from
The AntiBody

RAIN POEM

My lover wants me to write her a poem
a poem, of all things, about rain.
How much more foolish do you want me to look I say,
everyone knows rain is cliché.
I suppose you want it to be
about tearful rain, cleansing rain, oppressive rain.
Freedom rain, baptismal rain,
or something more domestic
like diamonds on our kitchen screen, rain collected in street puddles to make us skip and
   swerve
on our way to a café, and let’s not forsake that one
   umbrella
between the two of us and forgive me for wanting to hold you just a bit closer.

What next? Flowers? I suppose you’ll want to hear about flowers in this poem
they go so well together, flowers and rain, a tide of red and yellow columbine, splash of brown-eyed susan, the thorny wash of rose. No,
I won’t fall for it.

As if I have nothing better to do then contemplate rain, make of it a stream of words, a river of verse, an ocean of meaning. Damn it, more clichés,
they dribble off the tongue drop by drop without stop
and before you know it you’re waist deep in the Hallmark trapof blubbering nonsense, a bottomless tub of empty 
sentiment
and deeper yet, soon you’re swimming in it
over your head and you can’t breathe
from all the childishness and humiliation.
Rain, rain go away.

Let’s just stay here quietly in bed for one morning ignoring
the rain as my body barely inches toward yours,
it’s the best I can do for now.
I won’t mention the tip-tap on the skylight
the dark round clouds hovering over us
like disapproving faces
and promise not to mention my failure to please you
with the poem you so desire
or heaven-forbid
something as original as love.