by Lorena Freed
The rain is falling, falling hard and quick.
The rain is falling and it falls some more.
It falls this fall. There is no way to flick
a thing this thick into a metaphor.
Phone-cameras want to bring the city’s sluiced
outline into the eye. Cloud tramples down
land, slaving definition. I’ve deduced
that they were lying to me in the town
of childhood. There is nothing much to say.
Cities have always shown their bleary way
in gas lights and the psychotropic view
of skylines. But they have not meant or said
anything. Nor does this rain have to do
with tears, my boy or anyone else dead.
‡‡
LORENA AXMAN FREED exists as an Ohioan child of the ‘80s, with work forthcoming in Blue Unicorn. A ghost since her ostensible birth, she is still figuring herself out and sometimes wonders whether she has really been anyone, anywhere.
Union Spring Literary Review 