PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

in the shape of rain  

for the one who made it back

they pumped him full 

with twenty-nine pints 

of not-his-own blood, 

stitched him shut 

where the blade had been.

he came back like a whisper does 

when it’s not done being said.

we sat in the still light of the 

hospital café and he said—  

i dreamed of thunder over red dust roads,  

of cassava steaming in open air,  

of songs from the mouths of children.

but his girl clutched his sleeve, 

his boy looked up like the sky might fall,

and his wife had nothing left to pray.

you think I’ll ever go back? he asked.

I didn’t answer. I just hummed a tune 

we used to sing before the years chased it off.

maybe one day he’ll step off the plane 

and smell the coming rain— 

rising from the dirt, full of memory, 

                       full of ache.

maybe. but until then we carry 

the rhythm of what was nearly lost, 

in the soles of our shoes 

and the hush between verses.

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