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perhappened mag
issue 9: RAIN OR SHINE

resurrection on the
cusp of downpour

MIA GOLDEN
—the drops of rain make a hole in the stone, not by violence, but by oft falling— 
           ~ Lucretius

icarus lets the rain bruise the rafters like
            the sky skipping rocks against a molten
                        suburbia, a sob-soaked pillow bruising his

forehead in tandem. what is a child
            if not a quilt of bruises and scars,
                        knees stacked behind an eggshell

shower curtain as the world goes to hell
            outside? if only storms enabled wings
                        like the sun, instead of shredding feathers

into a downy snowfall, blood-splattered.
            if only in the sunlight, icarus can be sure
                        his wings won’t melt against a cloudless

azure cross stitch, a tapestry, a shower
            curtain, a quilt. if a bronze-skinned boy
                        cannot let his bicycle thread rainwater

against the pavement, who is to say he
            is free? who is to say a hurricane is not
                        a captor, not just another way of burying

a soul in a waxen prison? icarus presses
            his cheek to the cold window, like a seal
                        on an envelope, a postscript. a confessional

written to the poster of the sun sitting at
            the foot of his bed. if only a person didn’t
                        need false wings to fly. if only gusts of wind

and rain couldn’t sweep life from lungs, while
            scattering trees and tears across the interstate.
                        a rainstorm, the kind that fills the streets with

water, with diamonds, with bodies, is a
            life sentence. it will always be there,
                        drizzled along the lip of a coffee mug,

absorbing into tongues, and flowing out
            of mourning eyes. tears bake against the
                        sun kissed pavement and still, icarus thaws,

coated in dew. the difference between a
            melting boy and a corpse is based solely
                        on his ability to dig his heels into flooded gravel,

his hunched posture against the speeding winds.
            a typhoon is just water wanting more. a falling
                        ember of a boy is more of the same, only smoking

around the edges. waterlogged,
                                                                                            but drying in the coastal sun.
​
                        bruised, but breathing.

mia golden (she/her) is a teen poet from california. she is published or forthcoming in the eunoia review, the blue marble review, pollux lit, and the heritage review. mia is an expert daydreamer, is slightly less than fantastic at lacrosse, and hopes to travel the world. she hopes you have a great day!!
perhappened mag
← back    issue 9: RAIN OR SHINE    next →
header photo: alex perez (unsplash)

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