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issue 3


a poem by
John Grey
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I don't have to tell you
what I'm feeling.
Rain falls on the dead lawn,
the drooping flowers,
the limp tomato plants.
You've known my droughts well enough,
the relief when they finally break.

I don't have to take you outside
so that both of us are drenched,
have you face down
with the tiny blades of grass,
see them grasp desperately
at the water
like men crawling through a desert.
No need to explain
what this does to the fruit
of all our vines,
the ragged blooms atop our stems.
You understand perfectly.
You grin the roots of everything
back into its moist, giving earth.

We can just stand at the window,
celebrate the reprieve
with nothing more than
an arm around a waist,
a head on a shoulder.
Rain or touch,
the dry is beaten.

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