Because Again Last Night

the Sky Rained

 

 

I only want to write about the weather, while I read

about the brain. Turns out I’ve been getting testosterone

 

wrong. Also: hippocampus, amygdala. No surprise.

I’m still slipping my grip on the “pre-frontal”

 

of pre-frontal cortex. Remember those people

who would talk about pre-partying at Jackie’s or Nate’s,

 

even though the party itself was much the same

as the before and the after. But the weather sustains.

 

So, too, will a drawing of a neuron, its branching:

its roots, its limbs, all the tree-ness of it. The tree-ness!

 

I want to watch the storm come in. I want to watch

radar animations of a storm rolling across Kansas.

 

Underwhelming to confidently assert the temperature.

Morally suspect to acquire clothes for yesterday’s weather.

 

The cortex I’m finally understanding. Laziness—

that’s why I didn’t get it until now. I wish

 

I could have made something beautiful:

maybe a poem that absolutely “nails”

 

humidity and the feeling of the different levels

of humidity on a woman’s skin, or mine.

 

But my skin’s a mess right now—and there’s

a whole lot of reasons, it turns out,

 

why that’s flooding a hormone flood,

why that’s causing a coursing along a carved-out channel

 

from here to here to here—oh, if I knew more

I’d lose you. I’d lose you. I’d lose you.

 

That’s the way this poem usually ends: me losing you.

But there’s a new kind of sky, and my brain

 

has taught itself this feeling—this!—

and it’s making my face

 

do what my face is doing now.

—Richard Sonnenmoser

Designed by Hayley Brown

Frog in a Drain Pipe
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