Saturation by David B. Prather

We talk of rain,
if nothing else, as is our inclination
when ashy clouds belly the sky
with their germinating and terrifying hearts
that beat so loudly we count the seconds
to see how far the sound has come.
The five-fingered claw of lightning
reaches into the veins of town,
hisses over the river, killing fish.
Heaviness follows, the sizzle of water
fazing hot cement.
This will remind us of another flood,
rain that gargled through the basement walls
and rotted everything it touched
with a wiry white fungus,
or the deluge that washed out the bridge
by breaking its flimsy supports,
filling the neighbor’s house with mud, roots,
a dead cat, and a ratty two-door sedan.
We might even dredge up a storm that caught us all
downtown in front of the specialty shops
where we huddled under the awnings
and laughed with impatience and nervousness
while the flood drains backed up and puddled
across the street. Maybe we think of the downpour
caving in the sides of the open grave
before the casket could be set.
We waited, as family will,
long enough to reassure ourselves
this wasn’t a sign, the earth collapsing,
a widow under the weight of her own sorrow.
We talk of rain to remember how significant we are
as we make our way through the slow mornings
of other seasons and drizzle
our hands through the dampness of our hair.
Let us open the gift of misery,
large and waiting as it is,
pass it around the room
for anyone and everyone.