Your hand reels in rain
as my hand reaches for it.
I dreamt my mouth a basin
to catch all that wayward water.
My palms have become museums
of melancholy. Statues of solitude
line the hallways and nobody stops by.
I don’t like holding hands anymore.
Letting go requires a wanting of loss.
The sky opens and closes the mouths
of mammals that wander beneath her.
When they die, their eyes always look up
as birds move across their bodies like water.
They start to orbit around the flesh and muscle
like satellites descending upon a planet.
So much life to be pulled from lifeless forms—
the Egyptians had it right.