The Day the Rain Falls
The lake is speckled with rain.
Each dot an echo of the last.
My eyes are wet. Life is melting.
I always do this.
This is the way it always is.
Kids jump in puddles, parents calling them.
But still they leap, mouths wide open, eyes grinning.
Yellow dolphins burnt together at the tongue,
kissing the way acrobats do at work.
When broken, the joint is raw and moist as meat,
never drying or healing as wounds do.
The death of Mao
The day you leave; the light from the sun is Indian Yellow,
the sky duck egg blue, pigeons sprawl across town.
You could be allowed to say this; that it was always this way.
But I know everything became itself that day, but more so,
people bumped into strangers just to be touched,
eyes met, lingered for that extra moment,
movements became choreographed dances.
Not knowing yet if change would happen,
the young squeezed their tiny Mao books; mid daydream
and even the old’s shoulders shifted slightly.
But chants did not puncture the new sky that day
the crowds not form, as all around us
the red became redder.