In The Space Between

It was raining
the day Jesus scattered
my words before me,
all fractured and
incoherent at my feet.
Bloated dark puddles
filled quickly
around us both, each
made up of things I said
over all those years
that yawned out behind me.

I pushed plastered, wet hair
from my eyes while the wind
and rain fought back, and
asked him why?

Being Jesus, I didn’t think
I needed to be any more specific.

Everyone wants
to be some kind of poet
in life, he told me. Few
ever actually understand.
And although each of us has
one good poem inside
our hearts, in the end
it doesn’t matter,
for we are all dogs drinking
from the same puddle.

To this day I haven’t a clue
as to what that means,

yet sometimes, late
at night when rain is splashing
down the gutters in that
quiet rush of whispers
outside the window, I can hear
the imaginary language
in the space between
each drop.

And in that solitary silence
I am the child drowning.

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