I rained today. You should know this
in case you wondered why the earthworms
came from the soil. I didn’t come from the soil,
I came from the cool steel of my mother.

Her womb was like that of damp stone.
My tiny fists would cling to the cold.
I can assure you it was never warm but
I was thankful to be blind, though her heart

(you would touch her and it would race.
I thought I could never forgive you for this.
The blood it rushed and there was a moment)

of thunder, I told it to go to hell,
for the beating of it would rock my bed.
There was no cracking of a wall, of light,
No electricity as I was birthed. It was silence

(that warmth! I can still hear it as loud as morning
and to this day there’s a ringing in my ear. )

As I grew older so did the walls. I said
“they would be me if only they didn’t yellow
so.” They said “if only you stood taller you could be us.”
But I knew there was a pounding in my feet

(And as you emerged you were nothing but
an extension--an appendage--and I told you,
you, your mother, whoever that may be that)

I think I went into the night sky with a dream
on my lips. It tasted like a summer I knew
but it was heavy like a past. I poured today.
There was a landslide that took with it my weight.

(if I gave it a name, or you a name, or me
a name, there would be no use for it.
I told her that. I told you that.)

I listened to the movement of your lips
and the breeze might have rustled past
but there was a moisture there and not much more.

06/15/2006

Posted on 06/16/2006
Copyright © 2025 Bob Arcania