roses bloom on my skin like angry roses, clothes sit awry on me, I am taut as a spiderweb, nothing fits anymore, not my skin my clothes my life.
Thus it is when the earth is waiting
for rain. Grasses hold their breath,
immobile, holding all their light,
concentrated, in their blades.
The wild wind-horses, stirred
to restlessness, run roughshod
through the angsana trees,
the palm leaves.
The sun, quivering, pours down
amber light upon this hapless insect
rendered immobile in thick sweet honey
staring open- mouthed against glassed air
at a world that knows it no longer.
so I pray to this charcoal shadow on the underside of the fatted cloud to hurry, hurry, for the light on the far mountains bruises even as I gaze.
We wait for rain: for drops of kindness
upon parched fields that make me weep,
for a fall of sun when all hope of light
has gone. I am waiting for my life
to begin, again and again.