A Poem Before Rain

 You were the kind of girl who

rode your bicycle hands-free

and yet I still

under-estimated your powers.

That first month, 

you threw away

my books

and told me

to buy new ones.

On summer days

we’d play frisbee,

wander through cities;

you’d show me how to pull

handfuls of sunlight

from your hair.

Your father once confided

he’d gotten lost

during a thunderstorm

and found you

in a beet field.

You sang through

every argument;

if we had to fight

at least you’d make it pretty,

kept your prayers

in the hollowed-out heels

of your cowboy boots:

“Jesus will know

where to look.”

You never turned

your back on anyone;

walked backwards

out of rooms

saying it’s the best way

to the future.

I was your ‘favourite concertina’,

expanding and contracting

to whatever size

you needed and

after we married,

we only made love in

cheap motels.

You said you preferred

other peoples’ memories.

I asked you which of us

was lightning

and which was thunder.

You wept and laughed.

You were the tree

that got split in two.

I was the barking dog.

This world without you in it

is that tree that’s split in two.

I don’t believe in Heaven

so I guess that’s where you’ll be,

listening to The Rhythm of the Saints.

I guess I’ve let you down

because you always liked

my clever rhymes.

At the end of this poem,

the dogs will bark,

the rain will start to fall.