Every Time I Start to Fall in Love with the City Again It Starts to Rain by jason b. crawford

There are pears I greet in the morning when I am sad, I kiss them until they untie their skin for me.

Every Time I Start to Fall in Love with the City Again It Starts to Rain

by jason b. crawford

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The voice of Brooklyn sits heavy; holds 

the jazz of a baritone, unfolding in their 

last note. Even in this rain, listen 

how bewitching that sound can be, the night- 

hollowed gut; a torchsong refusing to 

go out. Many times, I have called for the rain 

to be a lover, but oh how I forget its face 

when it comes. The rain is often 

whatever memory we grow sick trying 

to outrun. I cannot blame the city 

for being the city, holding wet in 

its crystalline lungs. I am not lonely 

because I live here—in this downpour while 

the sun is sitting flirtatious across the horizon 

beckoning me west. There are pears I greet 

in the morning when I am sad, I kiss them 

until they untie their skin for me. They, too, will 

bruise their flesh to please another. The wind 

this evening, pushes rain against my neck, 

another small kiss, another inevitable betrayal, tells 

me to trust the crickets more. A stupid orchestra 

we pray to, I pray to the most. These puddles 

are welling at the throats of the catch basins. 

I do not wish to step through their spilling 

so I find a way around. I could leave this city— 

and one day I might, but for now, I’ll catch the rain 

in my mouth; for now, I’ll choose to drown.