Biblical Proportions: Grace Yannotta

December 4, 2018

 

 

Grace Yannotta is currently in her senior year of high school in North Carolina. She's an aspiring author and an aspiring historian and an aspiring a lot of things. She has work published or forthcoming in Rabid Oak, The Stay Project, and Dream Noir among others as well as an upcoming astrology column in Dark Wood Magazine.

 

Grace about how this poem came to be: "My state, packed with beaches to mountains to gleaming cities, has been slammed by not one, but two hurricanes in the past month -- it's rare to have even one every couple of years. This poem was my way of sending love to the state of my affections."

 

 

Biblical Proportions

 

the lights sputtered and coughed at nine in the morning

crushing the warm lamplight and reducing the home to silence

 

the rain soaked. it did not bend to mortality

it did not exist on the same plane, the same level

 

it should not fall subjugated to the same rules that

the rest did so it did not. it poured

 

it came in sheets it came in chains and it did not end

the gasoline rolled down the streets in waves and still

 

and still it birthed into fall. the stilled bare feet onto

the dampest of concrete. mud curled around toes

 

what an aftermath. what rain-splattered shirts and

flattened hair. what a world we live in

 

stand on the back porch and expose your shoulders

blink to the clouds and refuse to ask why

 

as autumn greets you for the first time, you feel its

cold lips on your neck and you remember the rain

 

they tell you to remember the rain as if

you would ever truly be able to forget it at all

 

wonder what happens hear the snap of the trees

against the side of the house and watch the sun

 

watch the sun reach out its soggy fingerprints among

the leaves and watch the hair on your arms raise

 

the leaves turn up on their stipules and so do you

on your tiptoes. your hair is pulled back, your shirt is dry

 

they tell you to remember the rain as if

it wasn’t ingrained in your footsteps

your black jeans and the fogged windows

 

 

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