Sweeping the Rain

There were no armoires there anymore,
no libraries of dust competing with
the weave of cotton; no scroll-
backed chairs resting like guests
at a garden party organized for you
years ago, to which no child
had been invited. Water moved
through the pipes like an unmarried
aunt taking her time, sweeping
the rain with a broom fashioned from
a handful of sticks; every excess
dumped from the heavens must be
carefully tended. When the sky
filled with sand, it was
the volcano waking up, finally
able to sing the song stuck
in its throat for decades. This
is how you know the dead
still love you. They have not
forgotten. They will take you back.

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