raining somewhere else
by Olga Demott-Bond
i sometimes think that everything that has ever happened to me
is raining somewhere else. i sometimes think that the water has found
a path through high trees, worked its way inside another room, so the damp
next door is spreading, curving an unknown ceiling into a misshapen moon.
i sometimes think that if i find that moon, her distended face will stretch,
mouth sobbing open, her grey tears gaping for something else. i sometimes think
that every sky will blister like dead paint, flaking between my fingers. i
sometimes think of the years minutes months days that i have stood outside,
arms stretched, hair flattened like dead leaves, skin unstitched, holding out
a cracked glass, trying to catch everything that has ever happened to me.