Heavy without Heavy Rain

Summer, 2007 / No. 18

It doesn’t matter what I’m listening to as I pull

over to the wrong side of the wet road

to better listen before parking underground.

Radio shot when you walk by—

under an umbrella, your solid hand

on the back of a coat—blue raincoat—

your solid hand in the middle of her back

moving her forward, your long back to me.

I feel the thick of my stomach

curdle brick, holding me there, here,

dry anchor, doppelgänger, seen through

rain’s veil. Post funeral. Your life without me.