Silent,

but like a cathedral, columns of rain 
lavishing the treetops in blue, in green – 
This suspension of grey deserves 
a home: let it be me, unafraid to receive, 
knowing no better place to go at this 
juncture. A puncture, a roadblock, an 
accident. A day dented into the plan – 
obligatory rest. A test of lenience, stoic. 
Licking the wooden boards, the tongue
of water bells whispers its quiet blues:
We told you so when you were four. 
We told you so one morning, in April. 
We told you so two months ago. 
Every rainfall addressed, stubborn, but 
never revealing what so could mean – 
or thick my skull and of this spring.
Anyway, no greyhound leaving this town 
before tomorrow, or the day after. I might 
as well. A cup of instant. A towel. Tell 
me, what does it say to you, the rain?
Does it? I am at large and at a loss, 
enjoying it, perhaps. The forecast made 
a decision. I am taken care of. 

Lorelei Bacht (she/they) is currently on hiatus somewhere in the monsoon forest. Her recent writing has appeared and/or is forthcoming in Feral, Anti-Heroin Chic, Abridged, Odd Magazine, PROEM, SWWIM, Strukturriss, The Inflectionist Review, Hecate, among others. Follow them on Instagram: @lorelei.bacht.writer and Twitter: @bachtlorelei

Artwork by Abdi Ambari