Rainfall

by Georgia Moore

the rain smells different here than at home

home is a word used here delicately, tentatively,

home: where it’s sunburnt and beautiful and bones melt into the sparse branches of leafless pear

trees and the rain comes once a year in heavy ropes of oil-slicked sea, its scent deep and wine-

ripe and hanging in the air like a sweating dog.

home: where the rain dances in three quarter time and skitters around the outskirts, swinging and

dipping back into the hillside again and out and in. unafraid in tender shoes tapping a rhythm on

the window, flooding side streets and back ends so when I make my pilgrimage at night

accompanied by a sleep-deprived smile the newspaper boats taxi us safely to shore.


I don’t know anymore where home ends and the world begins,

one day I left blue bedrooms behind and started carrying the world I might have known in a milk

crate under arms, tearing wide open my scarring knees and shredding my tights and laughing,

limping, living, lost until another window opens and my shadow slips out into that same rainy

blue night

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georgia moore (she/hers): lover of bagels over donuts. if I'm quiet at any point during the day I'm thinking about sunlight reflecting off of buildings or planning my dream picnic. I'm a hopeless romantic who is too indecisive about nondairy milk alternatives to be trusted with real-world financial decisions. I've been a poet for seven years.