So we wait for rain


by Christine Pacyk



Sky presses our spines.


Grey fingers suspend us

like marionettes en pointe.


Wind unsettles our hair,

rustles cord grass.


Serrated blades bend

to slit these binding strings.


We’ve grown accustomed

to the stumble and fall—


our words whittle one

another hollow,


so we wait for the first drop

to fill, to bruise, to rinse.


Looking at our selves

through the panes


of a dragonfly wing,

faceless and unlimbed,


I try to find us again.