Letter to R

Rain, why do you

leave
such wide-eyed gashes
on the pristine windows,

these
flagellating
streaks of the flesh
that spill from
Dante’s whip?

Capturing shards
of vignettes
so prettily
in dissonance,

the riots,
once stolen
or twice entombed

in globular visages
of convex dewdrops –

You see, Rain –

I can almost count
these crimes
with my fingers,

like how your
watery kiss lingers;

softly,
regretfully
over this mirror –

Ariadne and
a stigmata of
shining martyrs,

Thalia, of the sea,
that draws
her lute forth,
like the Reaper

and little Proserpina…
oh – poor Proserpina!

Rain, was it thus done

to magnify
some detail
of neglect

in crude glory,

or to accomplish
the pettiness
of pig-eyed

nihilistic generals?

How unfortunate then,
that one never
knows exactly –

because careless wipers,

shameless procurers
of spring’s naivete

scrub these
short-lived affairs
away, erasing

the aftereffects of
silver-stained rapes

as soon
as the mirror
turns its shame

into the rosiest
blush of grey

© Zelda Reville

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