Rain at Three
by Tishani Doshi

Rain at three splits the bed in half,
cracks at windows like horsemen blistering
through a century of hibernation.
The washing’s on the line.
There are pillows in the grass.
All the weeds we pulled up yesterday
lie in clotted heaps, dying slowly.
We wake the fan-whir sea-heave
of our muscled Tamil Nadu nights.
We turn inwards
announce how patiently
we’ve waited for this uprooting.
Now that damaged petals of hibiscus
drown the terrace stones,
we must kneel together and gather.
This is how desire works:
splintering first, then joining.