i turned on fake rain because i missed it.

am i a failure?

i’m speaking to the wind,

which grazes me with a

loose assortment of

cottonwood seeds.

i press into my chest

to churn sadness

like old butter.

a froth and a foam,

my father, desperate

to get me married—

i stare at rectangles all day.

the beauty of poetry

is to find that spot

in the middle, between

too much and too little.

every poem like

a little thesis statement

about yourself.

the lights are off now, the room is dark.

here are the palmary goods

and fineries infused with lavender;

you smell them, the doctored blouse,

the textiles of canvas and linen,

red dyed and musty from weeks

pressed inside a chest.

your fingers caress the fabric,

feel the coarseness of some,

and fish for weighty coins

inside an old leather purse

your great-grandmother

made for your mother,

who gave it to you.

what i want is a thunderstorm,

pressing, pressing,

—what i want is for my father to die,

that will force it,

that will break this fever

i’ve dammed around my gut,

release the torrent

—when grandma died

i was so stoic, like my mother,

then days later wept

in my bed with my love

after a party, lugubrious,

unshackled tears coasting

down my cheeks,

olympic skiers.

i was drunk.

zoning out on sound of rain.

heartbeat. breathing.

i don’t want my father to die.

i miss—

arms around me in evening.

i want to ask but am afraid

you will say no.

the rainfall is a solemn

susurration, cacophony

of chaos resolved to order

by sheer virtue of numbers.

listen to it like you listen to me:

with full ears

catching every drop.