rice & rain

all the rain came down at once like a dropped bag of aquarium pebbles. too much for the street to swallow: all gravel & grit. i feel the saltwater rushing in my mouth as i hit the shore — sand becoming rice. the pot on the stove — put on the lid. we read the back of the bag — bring the water to a boil — it protests in the clouds. rainwater peeling open car windows to fill the floor — make mobile your lakes & the herons will come — don’t feed the birds rice. my favorite summer storms are the ones that come too fast. they remind me so much of myself: gathering their gray hair in a bouquet to beat against the highway. i think of the times the thunder would toss geodes at the street until they cracked open, about dad telling my brother & i to go upstairs & shut the windows before the storm snuck inside. the car prayed until it drove on water — ocean barreling toward us like a great big whale: blueness open & mouth full of salt. you ask if we should stir the rice & the water hisses & spits. we often forget about the ghosts who kneel in pots of water. there’s always a wooden spoon. i keep mine in the glove box. taking it out, i park the car with the four-ways on. other monsters slosh past. we get out on the side of the road. kneeling i plunge the spoon into the bank: chicken broth & rice. rain warming our bodies until there’s no mistaking us from the stove. i burn my feet getting back into the car. our flesh turns chicken-white & tender. somewhere in all of this i managed to drive across the whole unknown ocean — the one without a name that shows up only when it downpours. makes tides that eat radar & sailors. picks rice grains from her teeth. the other side is not land, but soft rice steaming & ready. our legs sink in. take a spoonful of me before i drive home a second time. the sun emerging like a quartered bell pepper. i’m thinking of lying in a rain puddle with you & falling apart into a palm full of cooked rice.