Rainy Season
I wasn’t serious in my prediction;
I couldn’t have been. All this
blood? & not the blood of that night
when I tumbled, cutting my head
(you know, that much blood it really
stinks, he said, rising
from the crimson bed
opening the fridge
over the door
that forward lean-sway
reaching for the Black Bear)
that blood is not the blood that sickens, now
(why’d he have to use the dish
towel I thought, before I saw
all my towels in that gutted
corner)
it’s this other
(I found you on the kitchen floor
tried to clean you up
checked if
you were breathing)
blood, this other blood
this other blood.