Because the rain was the same rain
you used to call
pain rain, the big cold drops stinging
our naked necks, because we all get
to remember what we remember
without censorship, without sideways
glances or air through unfriendly teeth,
I thought of the way you’d shriek
when you’d feel that first icy
bomb press your flesh. I thought
of the way you’d punch and kick
at the droplets like the rain were one
thing, like the offending splatter
could feel your revenge on the stray
spray you struck. And now I am speaking
to this same rain like it stretched across
decades, like it were also raining on the
you I knew and you could hear me through it.
And I know how silly it is to talk
to the rain. And I know how silly it is
to talk to the rain as if it were your friend.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 24, Issue 4.
John A. Nieves has poems forthcoming or recently published in journals such as: North American Review, Copper Nickel, 32 Poems, American Literary Review and Massachusetts Review. He won the Indiana Review Poetry Contest and his first book, Curio (2014), won the Elixir Press Annual Poetry Award Judge’s Prize. He is associate professor of English at Salisbury University and an editor of The Shore Poetry. He received his M.A. from University of South Florida and his Ph.D. from the University of Missouri.
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