There are so many questions the rain in a city
will turn into answers. Will there be flooding
becomes: Of course. Why didn’t he come back
becomes: he didn’t. It’s like that. But you remember
mornings mimicking couples you’d seen in movies.
How his hair looked tied in a bun. How he’d use
words like proclivity. You met him at a party upstate
and walked home together, passing a muffled campfire,
shapes painted on the water tower, joints scattered
like the season’s first flowers. He looked down,
as boys do when telling the truth about themselves.
The window gets stuck. You try all morning to close it.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 20, Issue 1.
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