Sunday Poems 33: On Rain

It finally rained. And it is all rain. It’s cold for a while. We’re not used to the rain. I am reminded of a summer evening when I was 15. We were walking through downtown waiting for a ride from someone’s parents and what felt like an entire lake’s worth of water suddenly fell on us.

People who live in dry places have a particular relationsip to the rain. Like sponges, our inflexibility is softened. I have very specific memories of riding my bike through the rain or running through the rain. There is a part of my memory dedicated to remembering the rain.

Sundays are for playing with the back of your hair. It’s getting long. You haven’t cut it in a while. You feel like you could just grab it in your fist and tear it out. It’s softer than the rest of your hair. Of course you won’t do that. When you wear a hat it always pokes out the back and flops down to rest on your collar. A friend of yours is complaining about their hair as well. You agree to cut each other’s hair. Borrowing your roommates beard trimmer, you sit on the porch and the device buzzes angrily as it removes fistfuls of hair from your neck. Sometimes it pulls a bit. You take it to the back of your friend’s head in return. Their neck is a little bit red where the hair once was. A bee lands on their shoulder. Below is a poem. Consider sending it to a person you’d like to share a haircut with. As always, I’m here if you need to talk. Have a great week everybody.


Next week,
there’s a clear path
between your eyes
over your lips,
the bump of your chin
down your chest
and so on.

We’ve been waiting,
we’re younger now.

A permanent staff member.

You call me your servant,
each piece of furniture with a purpose:

Water with cucumber in it.

My red knees.

I have memories of childhood
when my mouth is on you
the taste of playground
sand in my mouth
never sure how it got there.

Just dessert,
an acidic taste on my lip.

Originally published May 22, 2016.

Theodore Fox is a poet living on Treaty Six land in Canada.
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