Rain by Carolina Souto

after Robert Hass’s Late Spring


And then at 7:02 pm, the rains splatter against rooftops,

an evening moaned into, roaming living

room pets, how your dog-eared blanket cuddles your neck,
fleas appear next, as harsh as our accents, mosquitoes, too:

a rat gets stuck between bush roots, slowly dying, its contorted body
offset by a stringy tail, unlike a squirrel’s bushy tail, or a snake’s full-body tail–
scales designed for purses;

how sunsets abide by different rules; sometimes behind buildings,
this one dipped in gray, or a splash of foamy spit mixed in blood–
pink wounds across blue sky;

at 8:02 pm, friends pass the joint, flick a lighter switch; and the telling of things ends
because we forget what we are talking about. Laughter shapes the house
and everyone can feel their own hearts beating. A sign we are not dead;

how the rain rinses the approaching night, this vague sunset
against a heavy summer, night beetles reign in on bulbs
in glass containers, a small exodus as evening closes in;

past dark, the dog teeths out fleas from its coat, a steady rhythm
of bone on bone, and soon, it’s asleep on a round woven rug;
the rat outside is dead,

left to undress into dirt while we sip drinks in the backyard patio;
limes growing out of trees are strained into juices, sweetened
out of their bitterness, bittered into cocktails. We laugh more;

awake, sniffing through grass and fallen palms leaves,
the dog sifts out the stiff rodent;

under such saturated air, a dozy calm

there is a feeling death waits for no season.




Carolina Souto lives in North Miami, Florida. She is a musician, a writer, and currently attends FIU for her Masters in Creative Writing, concentrating in Poetry.

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