It had rained, a bit, in the afternoon.
I was bringing my cushion out from the patio
to sit on the picnic table.
As I walked through the latticed doorway,
a plop of water struck me
above my left eye, near the hairline.
It felt like a bullet. I gasped.
My knees almost buckled, but
I continued walking, to sit on the table.
The drop started downward
with cold clarity, and I tilted my head
slightly, to make the feeling last.

I have a crevasse, now, from my hairline
to the corner of my left eye, my heart-eye.
It is not evaporating, too humid for that.
I won’t wipe it away, I will let it absorb
into me, which is its purpose, anyway.
I do want to touch it… And I did.
It has been warmed by my skin.

Is it opposite when you really are shot?
The slam of heat in the forehead,
the trickle of red-hot blood, cooling,
the losing of awareness…

The swatch of cold rain’s drop
has been assimilated, conveyed
into my mind, with a brutal delicacy
I find hard to define. So I won’t.
I will just feel its power,
and accept its gift.

Totally dried, now, but,
it left a slight crust. What
am I to make of that?

Erin Elizabeth Kelly-Moen
© Copyright 7/25/04