After, the rain
       

Do not judge me if I expect
the world to weep when I, myself,
feel like weeping; if, feeling
the house too quiet—
            the silvery turn of the ceiling fan;
            the soft sway of the curtains—
I need to bury my face
in the bedroom pillows and scream aloud,
until, eventually, that thrum
in my head creates an opening;
creates a space for me to see, once again,
what, always, must happen: the slow separation
that, despite our instincts & preparation,
always appears uninvited. It's like
that time we were caught in a storm
down river: the day bright; the current
easy; far over the mountain, the dark
clouds, that, presumably, would never reach us—
at least not in the foreseeable future;
then thunder; then rain;
the two of us swimming, if not furiously,
at least steadily, against the current;
one of us tired and
slowly, almost imperceptibly,
falling behind.

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Copyright © 2022 Terry L. Kennedy All rights reserved
from Birmingham Poetry Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission