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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

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