water struck
by celina ma kwan
the news says “el niño has arrived.”
and mornings have made these walls
hues of suppression
my back has limboed it’s way in the return of
emptiness where my body
has spilled itself
remain here where these
sheets are now stained of me
and everything that is lost
there are no sounds of rain
but the pounding
collision
of conflict carrying weighing
burden
shoulder aching jaw clenching
silence
you call my name – three syllables stretched out
tightly in unfamiliar tongue
i do not call yours
in return but notice the movement
of your arms later instead and the way your calluses
are dried from shredding sun rays
and every quarter past noon
your arms extend out the same way
you give
let of possessions and of those
that are not
there are no sounds of rain
but you allow your pores to respirate
in moments of stillness
in the embrace of release
in ground of feet and
you say “el niño has arrived.”
