rice & rain

all the rain came down at once like a dropped bag

of aquarium pebbles. too much for the street to swallow:

all gravel & grit. i feel the saltwater rushing

in my mouth as i hit the shore — sand becoming rice.

the pot on the stove — put on the lid. we read the

back of the bag — bring the water to a boil — it

protests in the clouds. rainwater peeling open

car windows to fill the floor — make mobile your

lakes & the herons will come — don’t feed the birds rice.

my favorite summer storms are the ones

that come too fast. they remind me so much of myself:

gathering their gray hair in a bouquet to beat

against the highway. i think of the times the thunder

would toss geodes at the street until they cracked open,

about dad telling my brother & i to go upstairs

& shut the windows before the storm snuck inside.

the car prayed until it drove on water — ocean barreling

toward us like a great big whale: blueness open & mouth full

of salt. you ask if we should stir the rice & the water

hisses & spits. we often forget about the ghosts

who kneel in pots of water. there’s always a wooden spoon. i keep

mine in the glove box. taking it out, i park the car with

the four-ways on. other monsters slosh past.

we get out on the side of the road. kneeling i plunge

the spoon into the bank: chicken broth & rice.

rain warming our bodies until there’s no

mistaking us from the stove. i burn my feet getting

back into the car. our flesh turns chicken-white & tender.

somewhere in all of this i managed

to drive across the whole unknown ocean — the one

without a name that shows up only when it downpours.

makes tides that eat radar & sailors.

picks rice grains from her teeth.

the other side is not land, but soft rice steaming

& ready. our legs sink in. take a spoonful of me

before i drive home a second time. the sun emerging like

a quartered bell pepper. i’m thinking of

lying in a rain puddle with you & falling apart

into a palm full of cooked rice.