The radio blares "Dialogue of Souls,"
and the woman who hated clouds
watches the sky.
Where is the sea now? she asks.
Where is it from here?
What is its name?—
this rain on a morning ride to school,
winter, my seventh year,
my father driving
through rain, his eyes fixed on a world
of credit and debt. On the
radio, devotion to
the lifter of harm from those who despair,
knower of secrets with the knowledge of certainty.
Not even the anguish of those
years, the heavy
traffic, cold and wind could have
touched me. I was certain the palm
holding me would be
struck again. Chance allows
for that and for stars to throb
in reachable depths.
Filled with grief bordering happiness,
I didn't care if I was safe,
whether the storm
was over, only that it came, the slash
of lightning, the groaning sky,
and the storms we made,
how rain stripped everything of urgency,
how to the lifter of harm rise
those who despair.