When I feel under the weather,

I cannot suddenly expect a great raincloud to erupt above me,
meows and woofs drenching my skin in
some sort of silvery polish,
can I?
I do not claim to be a meteorologist,
but when storms gush out from the base of teacups,
I suspect that the barometer will still read 30 inches
and the dew point 16 degrees Celsius,
because the cyclones that whistle in froths above the stove
are cursively constrained, only freed to taunt budding villages or emergent seas if
one tickles the air with their tongue decided upon
whether the cups are dainty or thick rimmed,
and that’s just to, e.g., set the scene.

​

The reader must simply do more than dwell like a slug in this copious well,
while the poet shrieks into the tundra,
reorganizing and renibbing her gear,
tapping a trail of inky fingerprints on yet another white door,

until all at once, she uncovers a rainbow
from underneath a pillow or torn dog-ear,
coloured orange and purple from black and white, an imprint of
a refracted world that we too often omit but will never cease its hum.
For those who cannot see the pigmented stretch peeking from behind the rhetoric,
all you need is a “hot, sunny day” after a “dark, stormy night.”

​

How can I spout such fancies
when my spectators are not dressed for inclemency?
How can I sip calmly from my brew
when they are still perplexed by line seven?
The hail jamming my ears and the wind peppering my throat,
the raging tornado that parts the stanzas,
it’s self-inflicted, I must remind you.

​

The pen only braves the storm when it supposes
that another will soon draw me an umbrella.