Leaning out,
he feels the rain on his wounds,
his bloody face,
drop by drop.
The rain comes sifting down
through light and dark.
The healing coolness, the thunder,
the smell of wet cement,
He is a stranger to such blessings.
He is fierce for want of rain,
for the odd unfamiliar noises and open air.
One more day --
of rain, of crowds, puzzles to be undone,
even of fury and pain --
That would be good,
That's knowing, that's being.
Even the grief is good,
to kiss the lover, mouth to mouth,
and put a hand to the blasted ribs.
What she felt was real.
The horror and loss, those
are marrow-deep.
Once a companion hoarded photos,
trying to freeze time,
to grab the light and dark forever to him
and put what he saw, what he knew,
down.
Right there.
But how do you feel the past?
Light and dark on a piece of paper?
No; the terrible eyes know,
and the body, virus-specked:
The shadow falls where it must,
yet that's joy,
that fierce rush
at the light and the dark.
~ Sara Campbell
Copyright © 1982 by Sara Campbell