Rain peels paint like my father
peels fruit. Ah, the walls are melting
again. Rain seeps through the gaps
between words whispered
in the night. How old was I
when we last spoke? Rain sags carpet
like shoulders—you carry
this storm on your back like a wounded
soldier. Rain grows tall
like a boy well-loved. It sneaks
into my room while I sleep. Rain
is all my mother talks about for years
when you ask her how her day was. Rain
gets a place at the table. Rain eats for five.
Rain laps at my feet while I pray. Rain
is a portrait of a child
lost at sea.
August 27, 2017
Riley Johnston is an alumni of the University of Houston. She plans to pursue a masters degree in creative writing in hopes of one day becoming a professor.