we sit and try to name all the stories we barely remember:
supposedly, as if you have rolled your tongue like that your whole life.
it is march and as much as it pours
I still grimace as the truth rises
out, lustful for air and understanding
(don't you remember,
every dreary november
that girl, meek and bolder
with a chip on her shoulder
unsteady, not ready
to fall down, heart out
shattering onto the muddied ground
reaching out, then
deep down inside
no tools
trying to hide . . .
but how long will you choose not to see?
don't you know, young one,
then there was nothing you could do,
don't you remember, her, that girl,
that girl she was you?)
the rain drip, drips on the lawn
and I hold the handle tighter. take a sip and sigh.
the soft rays gleam on the walls, our hands, where my lips just touched
and we watch them dance in the occasional light,
and we sit reckoning with the wisps in our hearts,
to be unafraid of the morning, and when the water rises
feelings are rough and heavy and weigh like bricks, and are sometimes relaxing
yes: the word is cathartic