Photo: Hannah Six
House of Rain
By Hannah Six
It's that time of year
again,
and he has things to do.
The smoke in her rooms
wraps around her
eyes and blinds
her throat. 'Clearly,' she
tells herself, strategy
has never been
my strong suit.'
Yet, here she is,
asking questions
that bring fading roses
—just browning
around the edges
of pale yellow petals
—to mind. What he
has to tell her stems
from the root of all
malevolence.
That has always been
the problem
between them
—shadows were
rain, and morning glories
were Miss America
contestants, parading
across a stage
in bathing suits,
as if it were
the most natural thing
in the world.
It's that time of year
again,
and he has things to do.
'Never mind,' she says,
her voice
a choked tumble
of sharp-edged gravel.
'I am close.
It shouldn't take long.'
She knows
him, acrid umbra,
winding his way up
her stairs; though,
to be fair, he never
did see how
he threatened her.
And now, he leaves,
to do what
he needs, and
they both know
it won't make the
slightest bit
of difference. She
breathes through
the storm in her
eyes, and leans deeply
into her house of rain.
(c) 2017, by Hannah Six
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