For rain, he’d say a prayer.
I’m earth. I’m bare. Come fill my cracks. Come grow on my field of belly blades of grass.
A wailing cat caught in a trap left in the heat. Caught on a hook — the blinding eye, the sands of wheat. A little drunk. Bring down the rain as if you care.
Let it tattoo insects on my tongue. Electrifying, as when you spit. Inside my mouth rivers run dry. Let it come.
So he”d pray. Then he’d kneel to drink the rain.