And often, it seems, we live inside the rain.
It comes to us like the folding of hands.
It moves with secret footsteps across the roof.
Or now there is that startled intake of breath
that means the years are stewing in their own
juices. My earliest memory is of our dog
lying dead beside some railroad tracks. There is
a kind of hollowing at the center of the bones
that reminds me of a moon dragging its empty
carcass across the sky. The dog had dug out
from under our fence, and I remember my mother
carrying her in her arms so we could bury
her in the backyard. Evening light is forever
a lost fire. We walk up the tracks with its tall
grass along the raised bed. We look down
the rusting and eternal lines. Something
has pulled them taut there. Something has dreamed
them out of nothing. Or maybe it is growing
dark. Or maybe the eyes cannot bring themselves
to look beyond the floaters. It rained
last night. I woke to it. I woke to its breaths
coming in through the windows to find me.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 25, Issue 2.
Doug Ramspeck is the author of nine poetry collections, one collection of short stories, and a novella. His most recent book, Blur, received the Tenth Gate Prize and is published by The Word Works. Individual poems have appeared in journals that include The Southern Review, The Missouri Review, Kenyon Review, Slate, and The Georgia Review. See all items about Doug Ramspeck
