Ryan Van Winkle
I Do Not Want Rain for Rain
I Do Not Want Rain for Rain
I have known summers
where rain would come cool
as the underside of a pillow. Worms
would leave dusty chambers
and crawl pavement
in a way
we never understood.
We'd pop them on our bikes and
afterwards flick sun-dried skins
against each other.
So, I do not
want rain, for rain
no longer brings the secret
squeak of our shed,
dusty smells
of tomatoes
before they're washed.
Some afternoons the sand would be rain
and wouldn't burn as we placed
our prints,
saw them shrink.
Dad would find a game to quiet us
as the smell of steam seeped into our house.
It was how the trains might have smelled
before oil and electricity,
the smell of a kettle
left boiling: bitter and almost clean.
Indoors was all cardboard and closets
and the sun was not missed
like a brother
who calls to say, “Rain,
I forgive you for holding me
under grey water.” I was not always old
and stupid and mean. I was born
innocent. But the sun
made me brutal.
I enjoyed metal handles turned to stove-tops.
When a seat belt burnt my brother on his little hip
he cried so bad we were late for my store.
So I punched him
where he was pink
and he fell on the black, sun-burned tar,
cried till he was told to quit, given an ice-cream
that dripped down his liberty arm.
And now the rain comes daily
like newspapers
Sunday thick. Not like
a child we welcome home
nor someone dead
whom I welcome
in good dreams
my grandfather takes
my hand, says I am forgiven
for getting to his hospital late,
for the way I speak
to my mother,
for living while he is dead.
And I say thank you and he says to enjoy the rain
while I can. And because he says it, I try.
For when I was a child,
before rain was just rain
or even God damned rain, Grandpa was at
the ice-cream bells, calling, “Quick, come quick
before it melts.” The grey cloud hanging
in the west pressing closer, pregnant
all over again with rain.
