Rain again. Drops formed, wind-spun,
in the tiny vortices of clouds.
We forgot to breathe.
Chimneys tarped, water-tight, though I mistrusted
the hope of keeping anything out.
In a life leading up to this one, a storm
razed thirteen houses,
snatched our gutters, carried them away
on a river of angry rainwater.
Hundred-year theories. Floodplains left untouched.
A husband I hardly knew seemed
not to notice the tree limbs snapping,
the wires whipping madly. He seemed
not to notice the changing shape of my belly,
his own blood orbiting.
Beneath our roof, a slow leak.
I imagined another beginning.
Tall buildings of a city rising from my bones.
Kristina Moriconi has studied creative writing at the Rainier Writing Workshop in Tacoma, Washington. She teaches in a suburb of Philadelphia and runs a nonprofit organization for professional students in Haiti. Her work has appeared most recently in The Smoking Poet, Fox Chase Review, and Splash of Red.
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