el niño

i could hear her outside. i could hear him outside.

they promised a storm this january. i could hear the wind gusting the leaves against the bony trees outside. the smell of the vapor clouded with dirt. condensation steeped with metallic taste. water shuddering in the teapot. and i could hear them outside.

they were the eye of the storm.

the glass leaning against all shades of dehydrated purples and swollen greys. the gusts rattling the leaves. the wind whipping her hair. soft solar flares with medusa in mind. and his hair as well. the mane of a lion mask. they promised a storm this january.

they were the eye of the storm.

a soft whistle turning to a scream. the teapot.

behind me the sliding door opening the wind shaking the leaves against the bony trees the sliding door shutting behind HAVE A NICE DAY AT WORK and then her collapsing collapsing collapsing onto the bathroom floor. shutting within the collapsing. the moans and final gasp of a redwood tree as it shudders to the earth.

i poured the water curling steam, filling two ceramic mugs.

a tiny breath between the frame and the door creaked ajar. she let me in. there, a gloating room of yellow light and her a dark smudge scrawled on the tiles and the wall. with her shoelaces still tied. 

she shields her eyes with one hand, IT’S NOT SUPPOSED TO HURT

in the other, a gold tuft of lion hair clenched in a fist.

i could hear the rain on the roof.

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