monsoon season, one
BY RAENA SHIRALI
rainy days recall other
rainy days with their dark
smell—my moon, standing behind me
in the mirror. the sand i now
&nnbsp; resent—snake tracks leading
away. this must be
the anticlimax. i wait for things
to let up. i wait so long the ocean
becomes its own festooning
violence. mist shifts & shimmies
over a dim creek bed. everything looks blue
& the christmas song that matches,
to boot, plays from a beat-up stereo.
you’ll be doing alright with your memories of light—but
look: here is my body becoming
an island. here is my body
becoming itself.
