Vancouver
       

I know it's raining by the hunch
of people on the street below,
as if they are grieving.

The weather's not coincidence—
it always rains, there's always loss
running down my windows.

But you and I are wringing out our bodies,
taking them in from the elements.
We will lay down towels in the porch
and drip until we're dry.

We'll squint and blink into the light
spread blankets on the lawn, and later,
aloe on each other's pink shoulders.

We are leaving this city,
leaving loss like an address,
running from gods and pressure systems

leaving loss like a forecast
knowing everywhere has sky
but in this city we have seen
a thousand ways to block the sun.
Today they say the hazy skies
are from Russian fires.

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Copyright © 2021 Jennifer Bowering Delisle All rights reserved
from Deriving
University of Alberta Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission