When it rains, it whirs, a sad hum of stand mixer and wet
ingredients, storm clouds beaten into stiff peaks.
No, it’s not like that.
I’ve been watching too many baking shows.
When it rains, the cliffs are shrouded in mist and the birds
circle something dead below and the dead thing is me.
That’s not it, either.
When it rains, a voice says Stop being so dramatic. It’s only water.
When it rains, my bones creak chaos. Clouds whir and needle
their way over the cliffs, that voice following them down,
all of us together at the bottom in a heap,
waiting for the sun to save us.