She saw a full moon in the sky.

That same ol’ moon.

The one she had seen three thousand miles away

at home

when she was packing.

A silver rain rained.

She was glad of the rain,

the almost-too-bright to sleep

because-of-the-moonlight

silver rain.

She wanted her desert life to be washed away

She wanted it to be rained on.

She wanted all her thoughts made clean, fresh, new.

“Rain on me silver rain.”

She wanted the rain to crack open what was hard and dry inside

to make rivulets and puddles and watery places

where something new—anything new—

could grow.

“I am a desert. I need the rain.”

The morning dripped with silence.

a thick cottony sky, and

a sodden meadow.

Oh, for a mind with a cottony sky.

Oh, for a cottony mind.

Quiet.

She heard then but one bird.

A long, high trill.

Was there only one bird trilling?

Her room was perfect.

A retreat on the second floor.

French doors onto a balcony

white windows all ‘round

Hardwood floors.

White coverlets and pillows.

It was all hers.

She didn’t want to leave her room that was all hers.

She wanted to hug her room

and wanted her room to hug her back.

“You are my new lover”

she said to her white room.

It was a vow.

“You are the only lover I will ever have.”

Relephant: 

Someone Once Asked Her: Would He Still be Worth it? {Poem}

Author: Carmelene Siani

Editor: Catherine Monkman

Photo: Used with permission from Catherine Penn, M.A.