When the children were small and sleeping,
the night warm and raining,
I would go out to a place under the broken
eaves. Naked, yes. And standing under,
wash my hair with rain and the dark of night.
I could hear cars on the other side
of the duplex. I could smell the sheets
upstairs. I still couldn’t touch anything
labeled future. Lonely in the rain,
the spirit is beautiful. It can marry
the heart for no one to see. Like I said,
I washed my hair under the broken rain,
and stood there in the night, glistening.
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