I’m on my back, and the rain nakeds my already
taut skin, wilts the now-hard bulbs of my
nipples, melts each goose bump bud left by spring.
When I say magic, I mean
I stepped into a puddle and fell in up
to my waist before my toes kissed
the mud. Merciful, its resounding
creatureless end. Summer blesses
me again and again, always plenty
of tomatoes. If I find a boulder,
I stand on it just to stand on it.
It is June, and there is time.
My forsythia weeps for all the rain.
On dry days, there is a moon
so bright it pinks, blushes
at my pubic bone, at my elbow,
warm in its shaft, and I fly, open and
fleshy toward the lake. I ripple through
the trout. In my chest, a swarm of gnats,
orchestral. The rain backs, it coasts, it drools
down my heavy brow.
I am not in love.
My bones itch, searching
for their way out.
***
Abigail Raley is a queer poet from Kentucky. She is an MFA poetry candidate at the University of Montana.
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image: Ashley Beresch. Check out more of her work on Instagram @ashleyberesch
Rejection Letters 