“it’s a wet one this year”

This poem was originally published on The Pittsburgher’s predecessor, The Dog Door Cultural.

the people are getting on buses wearing raincoats

and here I am I'm blooming in my bedroom

I hold a heartbeat in my hands, heavy with the softness of sandpaper

and you're like a mountain with the ridges and the cracks

I'm the wind that passes over the gorges

and eventually wears down your ice pick edges

in the morning I'm baking crackers

and you're still just choking on the sunrise

we arrange the world in pink and pepper,

non-politely seasoned with too much himalayan salt

wine rich dahlias filling the size of the dinner plates

and a little nut of doubt buried by the squirrels deep inside my head

carefully cultivating poisonous genetics

planted in the lab-grown corn rows

and it's a wet one this year, monsoon mysteries

can you see the stitches

from where we separated the insides of ourselves from the animals?

hold back for a moment

and leave the tiger cage in the attic unlocked

let me experience what it's like to fight desire ▲

Elizabeth Adan is a lifelong artist who enjoys deconstructing the smallest moments and largest emotions, often at the same time. Her alliterative, lyrical writing takes on topics ranging from sustainability, nature, love lost/found, and community responsibility. A Pacific Northwest native, her true passion is the great outdoors, soaking up as much inspiration and natural color as possible. Find Elizabeth on Instagram and Twitter @edgeofelizabeth or at www.ElizabethAdan.com.