“I Stood Pointing”

The rain came down, and we were washed into a situation of uncertainty, in mid-March. It was one of those days when your chest feels sore, when the steely cars race by more incognito than ever, like so many alien constructions strewn effervescently across what is soon to be your past, and never anything more. She stood there in a yellow raincoat, wondering before my tyrannical face, wondering what had propelled her out into the rain on this night. Maybe it was that her life was rain, itself, and she were a petal, put on this earth to soak all of this up, to soak of the frenzy, the torrent of earthly need, the jet stream of manly rage, anger and hurt, like an animal which grows apart by its colored trueness, knowing only horror, knowing only pain and this next moment, all its coerced washing.