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.