the weatherman closes his umbrella & stands under the rain for a long time, after the taxi drives off.

earlier, he was on tv giving an update about the hurricane: the particulars on the direction, the wind's maximum speed, the storm signals - the weatherman could be reciting these from a telephone directory for all he cared. but he kept on saying the storm's name as if it was a lover scorned, yet still very much adored - like the telephone directory wasn't a book full of strangers at all; the weatherman cleared his throat several times as if it was the first name he ever recognized as being bad news. his hand shook through the tv screen when he hovered it over the satellite image of the violent winds.

what is the weatherman thinking about as he stares at his house, now? his rain boots are filling up with water & he just keeps on standing there, gathering what he can of her -

the weatherman lazily fumbles for his keys & unhurriedly enters his front door, like he is sorry to abandon the noise for an echoing quiet, like the four walls are infinitely more oppressive. & yet as droplets form into a series of familiar satellite images following him from room to room,

the weatherman will refuse to mop his unpolished floor. he will leave the water to dry & in the morning, revisit the path of her leaving by the water stains -

the most of what this weathered man can keep from the hurricane's namesake.

-j.g.

my grandmother and i are on the couch.

when i ask about the soft edges in everyone's voice, she tells me,
"it's because these few days are holy."
and i remember my aunt this morning
saying something about how people must meditate
on their savior,
and think about their god.

i look at her now,
at the table with two other people,
their fingers curled in front of them,
their heads bowed,
and words quietly escaping their lips
like prayers they have memorized from the cards in their hands.
there are no saviors to them,
just kings and queens
that lead them into the night.
(but meditation has always been better done late, i guess.)

the dim light hangs above my aunt and her friends like
a numb pain that has settled
in a throat that has been suffocating for centuries
called 'architectural beauty,'
called 'site of sacred things,'
called a photography background for tourists.

the coins bounce across the table
and ring like bells
and my aunt's arms stretch
and rake the thirty silver pieces
into her chest,
thanking luck or fortune
or her god
for a prayer answered,
her friends cursing luck or fortune
or their god
as they gather another set of cards
into their curled fingers.

the words come out in a stream of kings and queens
and numbers.
their mouth spill their heart on the table,
right there - a murmured incantation
of awe
or devotion

or just
silver.

-j.g.

and maybe she's a melody;
i mean you will never know if she is
broken or desperate or reaching for something

or just trying

and maybe it's because there's so much going on like -
we have become too loud or
she has perfected silence,
but quiet speaks of the truth more than anything, like -

there's a heartbeat in there that says she's not beyond saving,
just in need of noticing

i mean, there's a heartbeat in there that says
you don't even have to join her sad singing,
just that -

notice, notice, notice
and start listening