By Sonya Plenefisch
It was raining –
of course it was –
supposedly there’s this place on the Plains
where it’s rained every day since records were written –
I’m not sure if it’s true but I half-wish it was,
a place where the rain falls and falls
onto grass and earth and all the birds feel like
they’re drowning, but – slowly,
sweetly, quiet, sleeping.
In a place like that,
maybe we could all sit down and finally begin to learn
not to hurt ourselves.
Creatures kept dropping stones
and empty pen filters in a dress rehearsal for the end.
Natives of the event horizon
gathered under the clouds and faded
like thumbprint ghosts.
Of course it was raining.
He sat in the rain with heavy-wet hair,
plucking feathers from pigeons to roll into joints.
He asked each bird, What do you want, and snapped
cello-string necks when they couldn’t
What’s wrong with you? and all you could say
was I don’t know,
I don’t know, over and over,
each time more yellow,
I don’t know,
until the fallen leaves spiraled up into Dorothy’s tornado
and the featherless pigeons formed their jury.
The courtroom adjourned and you unscrewed your belly,
watching the earthworms fall slimy
into puddles of rain and the judge curl up to sleep
in the haven beneath her desk.
Sonya Plenefisch was raised in Sylvania, Ohio, but now lives and studies in Cardiff, Wales. Her work has previously appeared in Words Dance, Cactus Heart Press, Epigraph Magazine, Right Hand Pointing, Driftwood Press, Clover, and A Literary Rag, and is forthcoming in Corvus Review. Read more of her poetry at shppoetry.tumblr.com.