rain in l.a.

my sister's dead and los angeles knows;
the sky is thick with rain.
clouds cluster and whisper the secret:
it doesn't really rain here, does it?
suicides are sneaky, and so is the rain.
they don't say a word and
the ground wakes up wet.
I want to wake up to sun,
when we all circled the table,
holding on,
a merry-go-round.
I must have missed when
I saw myself naked in high school;
I must have closed my eyes when
the demons walked by and called this a dream.
I've drunk too much and slept too long.
certain things don't belong:
puddles in the desert,
this death.
it's all wrong.
it's something scared of itself,
shivering, like the poor palm trees
who don't know what to do with the rain.
they stop swaying and simply shake,
bunched against the wind,
vulnerable and unsure,
huddled together like children left behind.


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