Birmingham Rain

I sit watching the rain bounce
and ricochet off rusted railing,
soak multicolored roof shingles.

I think about the rain
and how it falls without hesitation.

You don’t see any cracks in the sky,
any pails that can be tilted over
like your grandmother’s voice saying,
It’s alright, baby. It’s just rain.

Your skin like red dirt
poised and settled.
The rain ricochets
and stirs its puddle.
The steps of the porch,
slippery,
welcoming the wind.

The rain here
is different than in Memphis.
You love like your granddaddy.

The key slides in the lock,
and the tumblers shift
and they shake.

It doesn’t force anything.
It’s not loud
in how it comes in.
Regardless where you go,
you know where home is.
And you’re always welcome

a key forged in love
and cooled
by this Birmingham rain.

Collected and gathered from the gutters,
filling the gaps of your red mud,
not afraid to leak over
and stain the sidewalk.

Kisses can drown
if you aren’t prepared.

Her hips
have stained my soul.
Her lips,
thick as the syrup
that covers fried bologna,
swirled around
and soaked by white bread
passed from her lips to mine.

In Memphis,
the rain is spread further apart.
The drops are thicker.

But here,
it falls a million times smaller
and takes up more of the air.