by Terry Godbey 

All day it has rained,

clouds sliding defeated over eaves,

torrents rushing through streets,

and if you were beside me

I would tell you

about stomping through puddles

in little-girl galoshes

and the boys who chased me

to press hard-bodied

beetles against my wet face.

I would try to make you understand

how I squirmed to get away

though part of me wanted to stay,

the unnameable attraction kicking

inside me like a bug on its back,

the sinking that made me want

to lie down in the mud,

give myself over

to the nastiness of little boys

with eyes like bluebottle flies.

They stood over me

when I fell, laughed at my tears,

the blood where I bit my lip.

I was a specimen under glass,

they were taking notes.

Rain slipped under my slicker

till I was damp clear through,

and when they held down my arms

like you do sometimes

I fought them

and I didn’t.

If you were here

I might warn you

I’m hard to scare away,

rain alone won’t stop me.

Then again I might just smile,

say your name, roll it

around on my tongue,

eat you up,

spit you out.