Walking Beneath a Post-Rain Sky

He was free. Free to feel whatever he felt.

Toni Morrison, “The Bluest Eye”

The cement is dark from wet. I set

out. Rain all night and now a break.

Unsettled feet rush outside. In search

of safe—cloudless sky and gust-free

streets. But really. I seek safe inside.

A mind too flooded with sad. Heavy

dark rain clouds. I want the sun. The

smell of spring jasmine. And red

flowering cacti. I fear deluge. Dark

sunless days like Petersburg winters.

It’s only one or the other, I seek

small places I can hide. Away from

the rain but today, I cannot breathe.

The lavender candles burn my lungs

in the lavender candles on the glass

coffee table burn my lungs and the

baby blue plush carpet swallows me

with too much softness. I want to

feel. Free to feel. Whatever I feel. To

To believe I won’t be swept away.

Desperate I fling open the door, ready

to risk it all. And walk beneath a

post-rain sky. Where I am mostly

alone. Except the snails. White clear

bodied snails making their way across

the sidewalk. As slow as they need

to be. They are safe, I think as I play

a sort of hopscotch to give them

space. And I’m almost home, almost

completely dry, when I see a man

walking his dog. The most adorable

Golden with smiling eyes and flapping

tail. And I reach to pet him when the

owner crosses the street. To give you

space, say his eyes, to protect you, say

his eyes. And I smile and feel a few

drops of rain. And I move, snail-like

and drink them in.