Rainy Season

You would think the sky would run out of rain
that whatever reservoirs fuel these inundations
would dry out, that every cloud would be wrung out
but still it continues. The streets run like rivers
for cars to ford, sending up curls of water
to drench helpless pedestrians, who huddle,
standing on seats at the bus stops,
craving shelter as water rushes
beneath their feet. Walking becomes impossible.
Even when rain is not falling, it hangs in the air
and our arms stick to chairs, our legs to seats
and it coats us, driving us to wash it off
with yet more water—it’s almost Biblical.

I cried like that once. When they locked me away,
I wept until it was just like breathing—
something you do while doing other things,
until you begin to take little notice. When I neared
the nurses’ station to ask for shampoo
I gasped words out between tears, and they
wanted to comfort me, but I told them
it was just something I would be doing for a while,
salty rivulets running from the corners of my eyes
or spilling over my bottom lashes, while I made my bed
or mopped the porch floor, or looked out over the grounds
wondering where I would go, and what I would do
with this sticky coat of sadness, and with the rest
of a life extinguishing itself by drowning.
But then, as now, I had to believe
it was only for a season.