Rachel Lehrman

 

Virga

Alone on the front porch.
Voices from a late night game in the park.
The northwest sky scintillates and the east.

So well the body remembers
what the mind forgot.
If I could climb inside my thigh,
I'd find you, perched and quivering on the edge of the bed
the feline cut of your hair blending with mine.

Twice now, the storm began
on either side of my house,
wide-angled and moving away.

It's so easy, in this dry space.
What I know, everyone knows—
but when I tell it to you, it's strange.

Every night the storm continues.
Every night an attempt
at something new.

How do I explain:
when it's too comfortable,
I never loved you.

Michelangelo said:
A block of marble
holds within itself
designs more beautiful
than the artist conceives.

My body
like marble, would mold to what you see.

Lit windows. Birds
screaming from their nests.

Suddenly, on my knees,
I sweep the ground
in a gesture
where long ago
you did not exist.


Note: Virga (noun): Streaks or wisps of precipitation that evaporate before reaching the ground.

 

Copyright © Rachel Lehrman, 2007.

Rachel Lehrman is an American poet who now lives and works in London, where she directs Nomadic-Collaborations, an international team of artists dedicated to promoting communication and collaboration among different artistic disciplines, places, and cultures. She has recently completed a PhD in the Communicative Dynamics of Collaborative Art at Royal Holloway College, University of London.