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.
