The Last Marigold

This Side of the Mountains

My fingers touch glass and are a paled reflection of rain,

slender trails of what has fallen first,

and you're there too, in the muddled colors,

and then I know it's my cheek that's glass.

Dry mouths are asking wet questions

but the wind blows their syllables crooked,

rips the vowels out--

E's and A's are bleeding bad intentions and

you are always looking away.

On this side of the mountains it's a storm

(one you've said you can't withstand)

and so occasionally I have stood with others.

Under their elbow it's never the same,

and I come out feeling numb,

and smelling like an unfamiliar armpit.

I should not say,

I love you for your armpit

but how else do you categorize

one million unmatched puzzle pieces

that are telling me the same story?

We duck the billowed clouds,

two silhouettes made damp by their own breath,

and try to remember how hands fit together,

clapping like oncoming thunder.