Monsoon

Poem by Virginia Barrett

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I

You are the young girl trailing her hand 
against the hot adobe wall.
You are the landscape painting: wild
strokes of sage and piñon.
You are the fallen apricot bruised, calling
to the unripe apple in the tree.
You are the hour burning as black clouds 
gather over the Sangre de Cristo.
You are the gray pigeon huddled with its flock 
in the belfry below a bare white cross.
You are St. Francis, forever feeding a dove 
on your arm in the veil of the voluptuous 
church-body.
You are the rain come now; long dark fingers 
in the distance touching down: cricket 
wind, lightning skin.

II

You are eating an apple when
the rain comes. You’ve watched
the dark cloud advance, willing
it to arrive, thundering over the mesa
like a herd of wild horses.
After so much dry heat a sudden
wind in your hair. “Some might call
this mercy,” you tell the sage
as you run through dirt and
rocks to find cover.
Sheltered, you take another bite 
of the fruit in your hand. Grit 
from the storm’s abrupt
chaos grates in your mouth.
Hummingbird’s last homily darts
through your head: “No one
died for your sins.”