It must be a jokeŚcinnamon style.
I think it was a dream I was having;
a collection of striped, dotted and plaid-sewn
lovers with serrated-edged teeth and strange smiles
to which I was handmaid.
It happens when it rains.
All six rise from the wet dirt
like cherry tree, like lime soda fizz, like sex
they come. It happens.
Each is the stem of a prayer;
each is a leaf curled into me,
then out into the rain that rains so hard
that I'm riverside now, filled with prayers and plants and
Ph.D. degrees. But there is no rain, really, no river or storm.
There are simply hot, dry plains, expanses of gray,
and myself alone, slinking across them toward
someone, or something, I do not know.Sanjana S. Nair