Rain

by Isa Mari De Leon

on smalley avenue i brought back a baby with

a heartbeat like the relics of rain dripping off a rooftop.

my own chest like last night’s storm.

my skin the color of yesterday’s coffee—stale like it too.

i was turning into an effigy of myself,

a carving rested on a rocking chair.

my hair threadbare, falling

in pools on the wooden floor,

the blood in my legs frozen over.

the heart: not within me but in my arms.

when we first came home i’d hoped

to rest for a waterfall of days.

yet at nights i’d crawl to her crib and curl a hand

over the edge. seized not by torrents or crashes

but by stillness.

i pictured her louder.

baby born early by two months

was bound to cause some girlish trouble.

but she opened her mouth and outpoured a woman’s silence.

my mother’s. mine. not even crying.