I travel by rain
to morning: dew, puddle,
I travel into the silver droplet
dropping before his camera lens.
I travel into ping and plunk and gurgle—
gutter, bucket, drain. I travel by rain.
In the forgotten picnic plastic cup,
in the canoe of tulip petal.
Petals he grew, bulbs he planted.
I travel to his fingerprints
in the soil on bulb,
to the roots’ memory of his palm, planting.
I travel by rain to night:
the bucket at the foot of our bed (five nights, my bed)
collecting musty attic drips.
Down the bathroom sink drain
where he washes away our sweat.
Down the gutter echoing his car engine
on the street, echoing thunder.
Rebecca James holds an MFA in creative writing from Queens University. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in several journals, including Iodine Poetry Journal and Margie.