The dreaming of the rain is bright, far lighter than the prickly slumber of wood.
I could never know his dreams; I only sometimes knew his mind. Thunderheads
blotting out the stars of a Summer’s night, ice crystals telegraphing rainbows
around the moon, greedily clinging and leaving
not a single drop to fall. He sawed great logs in his slumber. Shadows met him
and blanked his mind. I remember what he will not. I roamed the streets
of his grievances and let my footsteps slap down – loud and angry and insatiable.
I watched the shadows on the asphalt as keenly as he searched his pockets for a dime.
A nickel for the right one and a smile. Two nickels rubbed together
for a very brief time.
I remember the way he smelled – I never really liked it. I remember him brown
and black, with his boxers slightly open and the way I turned my head,. This man
who adored me, this man who tried to drown me, this man whose wrists
became so thin. Power is what you make it. Power is what you take it for.
There is no power in love. In love there is only the seeds of need
and those rock hard kernels of regret. In love we beg forgiveness and it is given.