Monday, February 6, 2017

House of Rain (Day 18)

Photo: Hannah Six



House of Rain
By Hannah Six

It's that time of year 
again, 
and he has things to do.
The smoke in her rooms 
wraps around her 
eyes and blinds 
her throat. 'Clearly,' she 
tells herself, strategy 
has never been
my strong suit.'

Yet, here she is,
asking questions 
that bring fading roses
—just browning 
around the edges
of pale yellow petals
—to mind. What he 
has to tell her stems 
from the root of all 
malevolence. 

That has always been 
the problem
between them
—shadows were 
rain, and morning glories 
were Miss America 
contestants, parading 
across a stage
in bathing suits, 
as if it were 
the most natural thing
in the world.

It's that time of year 
again,
and he has things to do.
'Never mind,' she says,
her voice 
a choked tumble 
of sharp-edged gravel.
'I am close. 
It shouldn't take long.'
She knows 
him, acrid umbra, 
winding his way up 
her stairs; though, 
to be fair, he never 
did see how 
he threatened her. 

And now, he leaves,
to do what 
he needs, and 
they both know
it won't make the 
slightest bit 
of difference. She 
breathes through 
the storm in her 
eyes, and leans deeply 
into her house of rain.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six