They ask me about him like questioning a spirit
called back from the dead at a séance.
Want to know if my eyeteeth fell for him first;
it’s long been rumored that the body knows best.
My grandmother used to catch the rain in an hourglass
instead of a gauge or metal pail.
Rain is life, she said. When it stops falling,
you know your time is out.
They wonder if the geography of my skin has changed
since meeting him, if my heart has opened into new continents
the same way Pangaea split apart amid a ring of seas,
if my spine has begun to crack at the mere mention of his name.
But they know nothing.
I could give them metaphors, figurative language
made beautiful merely through being spoken,
could say, I was a series of broken piano keys until he fixed all my strings,
and now, everything is no longer black and white.
But I know better, and so did my grandmother.
I know one day our rain will stop falling.
We are both thunderstorms
we will part ways into the sky from which we came.
when will it ever be enough for me! when? when! tell me! how much is enough? how much can i take! when do the scales tip! tell me! what has to happen? how far can you push it? how far away is the edge! tell me!
i don’t want to listen to anyone! anyone anyone anyone!
the less able I was to respond.