white cloud keeper
for prompt 3: a poem for a rainy day
to you:
i know about the stone that hangs in your throat.
i know about how it pulls your tongue down, down, down—
the weight of it tugging at your eyes, forever making threats to the spirit of water.
your pointed teeth war uncomfortably in your sleep because they are restless, useless in their unused power.
i want for you to know dreams
that are kinder—
i need you to understand a world
where it’s unnecessary to sharpen your bones, let alone use them as weapons.
i will always want a gentler hand for you,
even though i know you, and i
can already see you pushing it away.
even when the unfamiliarity of a
soft gesture plagues you,
sickens you,
turns your gut to stone, too—
i want it for you. there are no dictators here,
not anymore. it will never be about them again. thunder and lightning do not live here. the chances of being struck are none.
i wish i could placate the god you’re indebted to.
at your most shattered, at your most misshapen,
i see the one who inflicts the terror upon you—and it’s cruel.
to know the cycles so intimately
and still find yourself paralyzed by the rain.
child, there are clouds who give respite from the sun.
there are clouds that dance and hum,
some who simply observe.
you are not just the aftermath of a storm—
you are it’s teacher, too.
