The rain is haunted;
I had forgotten.
My children are two hours abed
And yet I rise
Hearing behind the typing of the rain,
Its abacus and digits,
A voice calling me again,
Softer, clearer.
The kids lie buried under duvets, sound
Asleep. It isn't them I hear, it's
Something formless that fidgets
Beyond the window's benighted mirror,
Where a negative develops, where reflection
Holds up a glass of spirits.
White noise
Precipitates.
Rain is a kind of recollection.
Much has been shed,
Hissing indignantly into the ground.
It is the listening
Belates,
Haunted by these fingertaps and sighs
Behind the beaded-curtain glistening,
As though by choices that we didn't make and never wanted,
As though by the dead and misbegotten.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem