Coming Down Rain From Light
My friend tells me she does not know
why she has a body anymore
and of course she is talking about
not being loved. I don’t know what to say
but think of two poems
my daughter wrote last month.
One called “ Coming Down Rain from Light”
about our roof leaking through a light socket.
The other, she said, was private
and I had to go into the next room
to hear her poem about rejection.
Even at four she has learned to hide
how she does not feel loved.
I think of a day years ago
when I sat in a seminar
smelling of semen, enjoying
the display that allows
people to imagine
I have been touched, my voice
heard, my body entered,
that perhaps I am loved
but at the least, I have been desired.
I love my children,
I hug them. In the dark
I put my mouth
on the neck of the man I love.
I don’t care if God passionately pursues me.
If I have a body, I want another body.
Sweat, semen, the juices of our mouths
are rain from light
and I can find no words of comfort
for my friend today.
