The rain pinched the glass

of the windowpane.
The rain’s tiny pelts nagged at the glass

like the conversation

she was avoiding having.
The avoidance made her feel

removed from herself

while at the same time even more

introspective.
The room in which she sat

was well lit, so outside

looked like asphalt

on a playground’s court.
She could see the orange ball,

bouncing lower, lower, lower —

until it stopped.
The ball, its visibility, then disappearance,

reminded her

that her words, too, dissolved like this. 
Or were her words, against the dark,

a bright, bright blue?
Jeanine Walker is our Poet in Residence for April.


Previously: As soon as the man says to the little girl, "I want to touch you,", First Confession, and At Night, Asleep