The Monsoon Story

The last monsoon the black scorpions were restless
we fogged them with steam, brew tea in a mud pot.

The fire in the stove flared from the squall
as the cyclone moved toward the coast and lashed

tall waves on the church. My hair was braided with scented oil
to nest the snakes that came from the well in large numbers:

that was the only way to tease them out. The leaves rested
in the gutter as the algae in nebulous howl went down the pipe.

The door breathed with moisture, expanded in girth
across my chest, as I sat in the firewood room.

In the intimacy of my body, the full moon swelled
through layers of cloud, stitched my sap to the cycle of the earth.

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