La Pluie (The Rain), 1886
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i can think of no way to describe tonight’s sky
other than a palm opening, offering light.
all day, i chased the sun. i remembered for eleven hours
how simple joy is when it is in reach. like slipping into water.
the way it slides and rolls off and around your skin. eventually
it dissipates. a blanket being pulled from your shoulders.
the introduction of cold where once there was warmth.
exhaustion settles and every plan i made for the day was met.
i can name endless joys within my sightline
but i cannot shake this tired. i want to tell you
how beautiful the water looks now, ripples
like monet himself laid color to the world.
i can smell the aftermath of rain.
i have set the oven to warm my dinner, despite the day’s heat.
light from my kitchen shines against the wall i painted yellow
and if i see it only from my peripheral i can almost imagine
i live with the sun. i don’t know how to tell you
about the way my chest feels sunken. i need you to focus
on the familiar in order to understand. it is heavy
and the time for feeling frantic has long since passed.
i want nothing more than to live alone, yet every part of me aches
to be held as i fall asleep. i am stuck in the middle of two unfulfilled desires.
the color of the sky reminds me of the start of a horse race, though
i couldn’t say why. the lights across the lake have come on.
monet has been dead for ninety five years. i am learning
how to name my cravings at the same time i learn to suppress them.
i want nothing more than to care for a life that can tell me how i’m doing.
i have chosen each of my responsibilities— still, their weight overwhelms.
i don’t remember who asked what i would do with extra hours in a day, but i answered:
i would spend them wishing i had fewer hours to endure.
