by Elizabeth McMunn-Tetangco
During the last storm
the rain
made islands on the windshield: clear
and round
as forming questions.
You sat with me
and we traced out soft new maps
with shaking fingers – here
is how
I’d get to you, losing
myself
in the blank water. But
it hasn’t rained
in months,
and the dust falls
in soft sheets on your old car. There still
are patterns
on the glass
left there like shadows.
When I drive
I see the rain
pressed to the street, your fingers
flattening the drops
like ironed bedclothes, smoothing them
with one vague hand
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