As the skies darken and spill, two students
fall in love in my English class, their eyes
flashing over verb conjugations. Lightning
jabs the city, endless water sheeting windows,
cascading down, flooding streets; for weeks
the air a thick veil draping
Asia, plump fruit
nodding in the mist. Hands are busy
under the table—his wife, her husband,
their children, other lives, no secret.
They don’t care that I know, as I string
adjectives, comparatives, superlatives
on the board, back turned. After an hour,
I watch them go, desperate for touch, for
their weekly appointment in a muggy motel,
where they’ll peel off damp clothes, join
their hot and delirious bodies to the relentless
drum of rain. And what do I care, as I turn out
lights? I walk home through another wet evening,
under dripping trees, the suspended plums shining
and ripe, close enough to pluck. A snarl of thunder
reminds me, this season will be over soon enough.
