Holding Pattern

Holding Pattern
Rainy season

Thunder breaking low over the afternoon pressing
     . . . tell your secrets to them . . .
a pandemonium of parrots into the trees. It takes a
days worth of rain to relieve the tension in the air
thunder and the curtains lifting.

I am listening to the muttering dark and how much
older the cricket sounds singing at the bottom of the
wall tonight. Rain slides down around the pebbles in my
grizzle root hairfixes me in the dirtfixes me
to the underworld and all the voices there.

There are games you lose to yourself. You stay anchored
to the room through one barely open eye, anchored to
     . . . who you talkin’ to . . .
the world by a slimy silver line, still as a boat marooned in
     . . . who you talkin’ to? . . .
a cave, lightening cracking outside, over the night, over
the vast awakening water. You feel the pull of echoes
kaleidoscoping too fast to grab, each mutation a little more
The sound of footstepsapproachingpassingfading.
A hand reaches in and touches the mirror.