This entry is part 34 of 63 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Autumn 2011


(“The word is constructed from Greek, petra, meaning stone + ichor, the fluid that flows in the veins of the gods in Greek mythology.”)

Let me know if that much-touted prospect of the future
is coming in the shape of a funnel cloud, or if it will be

the whiff of something sour despite the absence of wind—
There’s only the barest motion in the air, and today’s

forecast of rain, gone before mid-afternoon. Indoors,
I’m screwing replacement filters in these plug-in room

fresheners: oils of cinnamon and burnt clove, balsam
spruce. The outlets are low: a small billow of scent

curls around our ankles. A trace of it stays at
my wrists until I wash it off. Remind me again

what you whispered in my ear some time ago. Whoever
writes the history of rain will have to remember

how molecules loosen and bind, how heat creates that
chemical smell: imprint of limbs upon linen,

slight rearrangement and catch in the breath.
Dust and earth seared by lightning.


In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Series Navigation← Campus ElegyGhazal: Chimerae →

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