Static Rain

Rain waits inside us for a door to open.
Rain is heavy as full-moon lips carrying midnight.
Rain is an utterance made of broken pebbles.
Rain is that village girl who was
molested by an uncle on her way home
from school, crossing the lone cocoa hills
of Maraval for a shortcut.
A variety of life and lies, looking for she,
a mahogany tipped breast catching honey
smeared raindrops. Static.
It was April, a time of blossom and damp stars.
She dripped in and out of memory for fifty years.
Rain steals everything but our secrets.