let me finish the story
the rain water demands to be collected, whispers about blood
in the water, the challenges of forced migration and why hasn’t
a more reliable form of transportation been figured out yet. i don’t understand
the intricacies of politics, not when i’m dehydrated, when my lips crack
open like the end of the world, and water only falls on the left side of my face
because the rain will not make it to the river without some help that i am happy
to give but not happy to see. i carry a bucket on my head, walk in a zigzag
line, the only proper way to summon the rain, keep myself dry but not, let its sadness
creep through the metal and settle into my brain before i send it to a heaven
of sorts, the rain, not my head, that only throbs with memories
of a past life and doubts about the after. the rain thanks me for my service.
i wonder, what does it think i am in service to?
i didn’t know you were a soldier
i’m not. rivers don’t look like anyone’s handiwork anymore, the rain assures me
this is how they’re supposed to look but won’t answer when i ask
if this is how they’ve always looked. i don’t want to know again, migrate
again because the rain’s cries go unheard and unanswered, the soft patter
of its voice reaching my chest before my ears know a thing. i wish them well,
Be safe out there, keep my hopes of not being summoned again locked away
for someone to find after i’m gone, bend my body forward without moving
my arms or the bucket, they’re inseparable these days. the rain tells me it’ll miss me,
i should stay around, wash the blood out my spirit, at least, before i go looking
for another master to serve.
i wonder, who does it think i am in service to?
i didn’t know you were a slave
i’m not. this is not service, the rain is my favorite cousin i didn’t get to grow up with, this is familial
understanding.
[Notes: Originally written January 20th, 2022. The child of Octavia Butler’s Parable of the Sower.]