Collecting Rainwater for Ducks & Such


it became symptomatic, strange & prophetic.
that year there was an ice storm & we didn't know
what to do with all the excess water. i saved what
i could, hands cupped half-moon style below each
branch. continuously collecting & letting go. collecting &
letting go. just like the woman showed me when
she first taught me how to hold.



rainwater is good for washing hair & flushing toilets.
feeding ducks out of green plastic tubs watering flowers &
she said it is always a good idea to save what you can
just in case a dry spell hits in the middle of august. &
what would we do then, she asked me. what would we do then?



fastforward: 5 years. we are on a beach in normandy or a
parking lot in campton. either way there is this smell.
your nostrils do not quiver & so i assume you have grown
accustomed to the stench. wear it in your clothes like liquid
fabric softener or in your hair like newly lathered shampoo.
i myself, have not grown accustomed to the acne or the broken
teeth or the sight of you melting underneath my fingertips as i
reach out to touch your spine. by the state of your floorboards
it is still weekend. across the street swanky ladies pump one
dollar 59 cent gasoline, bangles clanking as red polished nails
fiddle with the hose. shell mart sells dreams 1.99 per minute.
between us there are 32 pennies & the leftovers of a four day high. no one has to say it. we know. we are one hundred sixty-seven cents from believing.

in the door of your caprice we stack stories plucked from old
radio broadcasts. midnight parkings. joni mitchell tunes. decipher
exactly where you were in 1986 while my heart was being broken & you were busy getting the shit beat out of you. semis slow on the hill,
drag their feet. rumble. perhaps it is a deep belly laugh. or one
final goodbye. either way your eyes turn an envious shade of blue
as you watch them barreling
down the road that leads out.

back up: to the beginning. condensation on the inside of the windshield.
you were a poet & i was a giver. i wanted to scratch our names
on the dewy wetness of the window. you wanted to give me
your lines, gift wrapped in strands of my hair. there was no love
involved. just artistry & music & your fifth of old crow. we hung
imaginary art on buildings. recited the lord's prayer. polished stained
glass with the intricacy of our insides; yours already melting & mine
just learning to breathe. i wrote but never told you how many poems
you were in. you wrote but never told me how many poems i was
omitted from. i slept in your truck. hands in my lap, half-moon style.
ready to hold you. ready to save you.
just in case.



to collect rainwater she said, stand by the eve. hold your hands
like this. be careful. be careful she said. hold your fingers tight.
cup them together. seal all the cracks with your skin. be careful &
let your hands fill until you can't hold anymore. then open
your hands from the bottom. just let them split. wide.
let it go. be careful. repeat.

but grandma i asked, what if i can't save it all?
what will i do then, i asked her.
what will i do then?