Sometimes I Rain

In someone's eyes I am the myth
of compliance, the one whose
wavering negates need or requires
another strategic fix two levels
down and one over. I am that
thunderhead hovering above
the tree line, bulging, dark, unsure.
Confronted, I leak insignificant
droplets, shroud myself in smoke.
If she could see me now,
what shape would emerge
from that coalition of anger
and unyielding half-truth,
those kernels fermenting
in corners an arm's length away.
I am the solitary raven in the elm,
the survivor stumbling
on the grain-fletched battlefield,
searching for the lost, wanting
to flee, but to where. I am
a fleck of ice on the windshield,
airborne mold spores, the thin
trace of understanding
melting under the August sun.
Sometimes I hold the billowing
threads. Sometimes I rain. 

Yesterday's Ache

Walking deliberately through pain,
I see my cat watching finches
from her perch by the window.
Recall a friend who'd breakfast
with me decades ago, early
on Sundays among the old people,
before the cafe filled.
These days I read his poems
to strangers, offer silent toasts,
sing his praises to the birds
at the feeder. We never talked
about love, but would sip coffee.
Laugh. Discuss books and hunger,
sanctuary, music. Food. Now,
yesterday's ache wedges through
today's, slowing time, gaping wider.
Closer. I never knew he was ill.

Thunder

Thunder never supposes
but offers answers instead
to questions never asked:
How to describe lightning's
lust? What is the number
derived from distance
and time? And why
do we not know the rain's
most secret desire?
I look up, my feet
planted firmly
on the ground,
and think for a moment
that I know these truths
even if the words
will not take shape
in my mouth.

Author’s Biography

Robert Okaji lives in Indiana. The winner of the 2021 RiverSedge Poetry Prize and the 2022 Slipstream Press Annual Chapbook Contest, Robert Okaji's work has appeared in Threepenny Review, Big Windows Review, Vox Populi, Wildness and other venues.