Rain on the Roof

It rains on the roof of the church, fat drops
splat against zinc like overripe plums.

          In the Luxembourg yesterday, chestnuts in bud.
          Sticky white clots fisting from sepals.

Here, workmen single file across the roof. The north tower
sheathed in scaffolding. I can tell time by the manikin

          who scales the toy-yellow crane at eight.
          He enters the cab, the arm starts to tick.

If my thoughts had paws, they would make
strange tracks in the snow.

          Mother, alone now. And who's to forgive?
          We hide our feelings till we have no feelings

to speak of. "Don't dramatize," I tut my loves—
What is the ineradicable root of love?

          Rain gurgles in the gutters. A childhood sound.

At twelve o'clock, the crane stops. Egg yolk
against whites: sky blue-rinsed.

          It soothes me like a hand on my brow.

Copyright © 2009 Beverley Bie Brahic All rights reserved
from the Southern Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission