Rain
— Saba Keramati
I wear a perfume that smells of driftwood.
It weaves together with the smoke
from our mouths, dancing
in the porchlight, where we are huddled
together in the chill. We have been waiting
for the weather to turn, the leaves
of the maple tree to redden. We are beginning
to notice how the sky darkens
earlier these days. It’s welcome—the stars,
the storm, autumn’s presence
and its comfort. With each inhale
our shared joint glows orange in the night,
our shared ash piles at our feet.
When we run out of words, we play
on our phones, blue lights signaling:
we are here, we are still a part
of the world, don’t forget us.
Your cousin had a baby recently,
she’s smiling at the camera.
I watch a dear friend get married
from afar. The couple jumps into a lake.
The water must have been so cold.
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