Lover, come over, come under my weather. The storm’s blown over (I am the storm).
And you, your weather, the color you paint your mirror to hide confined reflections -
oh lover! Come over! We’ll weather these shoulders, cold as the rows
of clouds hanging over us. The fluorescent light hanging over us.
You touch, I flinch, then sink into a steadiness I was never used to.
Mama grew gardens, you say. Papa taught us to pray for rain. We wore holes
in our jeans; summer storms for the growing things. I never met one as good as you.
Oh, lover. It’s over. I’m a tsunami that has broken here on this porch.
How can rain love the sun that breaks over waves of grain?
Call me a disaster, dear, and I’ll tell you my name.
Bridget Malley is a writer and poet from the suburbs of Pittsburgh. Her work has appeared in Main Street Rag, Uppagus, Rune, and The Loyalhanna Review, among others. Visit her on Twitter: @theMalleykid
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