I am lying still while the water
sings on my skin.
The first drop is like the first touch
of the drum. A rapid pulse that
slowly becomes less foreign to
my reflexes. The drumming
becomes more constant, as if
the Cherokees themselves
were in chant across my body.
The beats transition
to the shake of a turtleshell rattle;
in my mind I see dances
and waves of arms.
Each drop that kisses my face
leaves a sweet,
xylophonic sound.
The maroon velvet drapes open
to the bows of the musicians and performers-
the audience cheers.
The finale is bittersweet;
to embrace it for what it is,
lying in the rain or
watching
a cultural ensemble develop on my palms.
Yet to move forward- hidden
behind umbrellas and window panes.
If I fear of loneliness,
why do I deny such an accompaniment?