by the Rev. Kendra Ford

I feed myself.
I listen to the rain
falling bright and furious.
Rain remembers its falling for moment, rippling,
then forgets itself in the sheeting, sliding, silence.

It’s four-forty.
The sky reflects gray in the windows across the alley.
I know my life is not
and will not be
but I adore it anyway –
book strewn and poorly fed
over-thought and occasionally betrayed;
I adore it.

It doesn’t matter that the difference
Between myself and the rain
Is a matter of a little salt and some organization.
I love my skin and all it contains until the fain falls through it.

And I’ll love it even then, if I may.