Rain by Dominique Hecq
A million birds fret in the damp trees.
These fragments disturb me,
except for the repetitions of the doves.
I remember your white body:
an odour like almonds
spilling over in that house of stone:
red flagstones, white walls.
Again and again you saw me leave
when the steam in the kitchen silvered the window,
when the wine spread on the tablecloth.
This is not a sad story—
it is only difficult, and it does not end.
We said later we would spend the last of our lives
together–
the rain pressed out of the clouds
and continued its dull business in the garden.
Once, I saw myself, insubstantial as water,
reflected in your other woman’s mirror;
light blew in and out of the windows
and your hand settled like an angel
on my shoulder.
Because we are never enough,
we repeat ourselves, over and over.
Slips of paper
lie scattered at my feet;
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