Letters from the Other Side of the Rain.

Dear Humanity,

In my infinite procrastination for updating my crossovers, I'm back on the poetry.

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Nature

I'm going out behind the shed
Where there's a fountain flowing from the gutter when it rains.
I like to watch the tiny lumps of green that form there, under water,
'Till another rain rips them from their place
And they drip down the shed's wall
A greenish, gangrened wound.

Behind the shed there are no flowers
I've yanked them out, the ground is bare
I like to watch the stinkbugs and the ants, sometimes the rats
'Till those who own the shed put out the poison.
I always know when they do
Rat families come to be for support.

Under rocks behind the shed
There is the offal of the earth, the slums, the projects,
Worms, stretched pink and long, the carcass of a road killed squirrel I buried,
'Till it rains, and the gutter floods like Noah's world
And the blood of the road killed squirrel turns clear
And all is washed away.

This, then, is nature -
My nature.
Mold, dead things, worms, insects are my nature.
I guess you say they stink.
I say, I guess they do.

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I may just give this to my English teacher for out Poetry journals. Something tells me he won't like it very much. That's why I want to.

Love,
Kat