Weekends

REBECCA JAMES

 

 

I travel by rain

to morning: dew, puddle,

glinting, rippling.

 

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.