The first rain of March dripped
down the grey city like sticky tangerine
juice. This is a sign—
she should be getting better.
But instead, we perch around her drinking chair
and watch her shrink and compress
into a dried bouquet of lavender
and yellow grass and one lonely Christmas rose.
She’s supposed to be getting better.
Her body is supposed to be sponging up those tangerines
that we peeled in desperation.
Rain is supposed to mean lakes
with healthy algae and fleshy fish.