Rain, Eurydice, more rain. It seems these mountains are married to cold, damp clouds. I’ve known no sun here, where you are not. I sit by this window and peel the skin from a pear. Darling, I needed to see you and now I see rain, hotel porn. Somebody sent chrysanthemums, some roses, an orchid. They smell nothing like you. My nose is wasted on onions and cilantro’s summer noise. I won’t cry any more. I won’t wake in the middle of the night and reach for the phone to call you. This rain, how it seems to seethe like water hissing from the lips of the kettle, begging one more dance with Darjeeling. I watch the news of India, a 70-year-old couple killed in their hotel room. Didn’t Dickinson say the world was made for lovers? Well, she died alone and this pear tastes like salt. O little town with your shut-down steel factories, build me a ship, there is a river I need to cross with waters so dark dawn looks like night and my own name is sung on the waves like a curse.
Jason Myers grew up in Maryland, graduated from Bennington College, received his MFA from New York University, then drifted south. He now lives in Atlanta, where he is FTE Fellow at the Candler School of Theology at Emory University. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Cortland Review, Indiana Review, The Paris Review, West Branch, and elsewhere. (5/2010)