Last night after a fight with my lover
I sat on my front porch under an umbrella,
vicious thunderstorm pounding
down around me, tugging
the umbrella slantways
and shaking, as I smoked my cigarette
angrily, watching the park across the
street light up with electric daylight.
It felt like Mother Nature laughing, as the
storm grew more furious and insistent,
clucking her thunder-tongue in a mighty show,
sending her rain slivering sideways
beneath my umbrella like finger pokes:
Girl, you know nothing of storms,
go put your petty squall to bed.
Surrendering my anger to the gale,
returning inside to lover quiet,
stretched out on the bed, I strip
off my clothes sodden with Her teaching,
lay down, offering my tongued apologies,
lover rubbing raindrops into my skin
like holy oils, and outside, the rain slowed,
and the moon broke through.
© 2020 R. B. Simon
First published in Winter 2021 Issue of Bramble Literary Magazine.
