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.
~ 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!!