On the days I expect it to, the rain never comes.
there is nothing else to say except this, the lack
and instead, I watch the plants grow. The ivy has turned
another corner and hangs now past the ceramic bird, blue
as a wintered sky, the wings comfortably folded;
I, too, could stay in this position forever.
When you move I imagine I am inside of you
my arms steel, my legs steel and I conducting
the electricity for you; I would make it impossible
for you to twitch a leg. I imagine
this while I press my hand to your back
whispering for you to stop; my hand should collect currents
pulling them all away from you, stirring your blood
like slow ripples spreading a pond, a frog that has jumped.
The other plants, the hyacinths, the wandering jew, the tropicals,
they are growing just as ceaselessly, each one collapsing
in on itself, sprawling leaves to the ground, pressed
up against the radiator, the windows still cool from a lingering
winter. While you sleep, I watch the leaves, wanting to taste them,
wanting you to be so rooted, a potted plant in a loving home.
There are worse things than this, I know. You wake up
and I’ve kept you warm, still, for hours. I cannot slow
your currents, your blood rolls through me, swift
and quick: a slap across the face, and like anything else, steel
will rust; the rains will come.