The voice of Brooklyn sits heavy; holds

the jazz of a baritone, unfolding in their

last note. Even in this rain, listen

how bewitching that sound can be, the night-

hollowed gut; a torchsong refusing to

go out. Many times, I have called for the rain

to be a lover, but oh how I forget its face

when it comes. The rain is often

whatever memory we grow sick trying

to outrun. I cannot blame the city

for being the city, holding wet in

its crystalline lungs. I am not lonely

because I live here—in this downpour while

the sun is sitting flirtatious across the horizon

beckoning me west. There are pears I greet

in the morning when I am sad, I kiss them

until they untie their skin for me. They, too, will

bruise their flesh to please another. The wind

this evening, pushes rain against my neck,

another small kiss, another inevitable betrayal, tells

me to trust the crickets more. A stupid orchestra

we pray to, I pray to the most. These puddles

are welling at the throats of the catch basins.

I do not wish to step through their spilling

so I find a way around. I could leave this city—

and one day I might, but for now, I’ll catch the rain

in my mouth; for now, I’ll choose to drown.

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