summer monsoons

susan smith nash

 

 

The dark is breathless

in this raw night.

My former idea,

who I thought I was

I am liquid

ink soaking into a page,

dye sponged up by cloth,

tears sinking

into someone's skin.

 

hot wet nights, hotter days

confession is a way

to deliverance

to a field knee-high with leaves

to a wealth of realities

excruciating

like pearls