by Nicholas Bradley
Dear Kit: You said the storms taught you something
new, a weather term you hadn’t known. Well, you
and grim me and everybody else. What’s
a pedant to do but consult the good book?
The dictionary swings and whiffs. Phrases:
none. Etymologies: none. Definitions:
none. Quotations: none. Full text? Take
a wild guess. I look at these sweet nothings
through my own zeros, leer at drone footage
of the crumbled Coquihalla Highway
and the streaming porn of liquefied cities.
Above my mask I’m always fogged. Water,
water, everywhere. You tell me it’s drier
than normal on your side of the Rockies.
The rain got stuck in traffic. I know the Bow
a little, Elbow too, and my lips are cracked
on your behalf. I dreamed I was an ocean
and woke up soaked and coughing, bedclothes
a lake. Aren’t all rivers atmospheric?
That’s why we love them, breathe them through our gills
and taste them with our feet. The skylight’s drumming.
When this cold breaks I’ll write some more. Till then
I dispatch your rightful precipitation
and all my best from this drenched island. Nick.
- Share this Poem:
