Issue 15
Rain
Kelly Spitzer
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Bahamas, in August
Even the night air was sticky,
stifling with the lack of breeze.
We slept bare --
hatches open
swatches of cloth swooping wind onto our bodies.
Until that night,
anchored in Shark Something Bay,
when the stars disappeared.
The wind came up from the Whale's Mouth,
shooting us with streams of rain.
On deck,
huddled under wet blankets and a tarp,
we watched the lightning
dance on the waters surface.
Purple and pink against the black of night.
Thunder boomed beyond the waters wave.
Then silence.
A sweet sound in lull of light.
The world disappeared,
and your face,
white against the waters chop
became a fading image in my mind.
I could hear your breathing,
slow, steady next to me.
We clutched hands
sat rigid in the reprieve.
And in that black silence
the night became as bright as day.
Split seconds of stillness shattered
with the crack of a mast
and sparks flew out
spraying the sky with flecks of fire.
A low whistle,
the wind shifts.
The sand is golden again.
~Kelly Spitzer
Kelly Spitzer lives in the Pacific Northwest. Her writing has appeared in
Retrozine, Word Riot, Orchard Press Mysteries, Outsider Ink, and
The Green Tricycle's Issue 14.
© 2004 by Kelly Spitzer. All Rights Reserved.
© Copyright 2004 by Cayuse Press. All Rights Reserved.