Today the weather just turned. There was no beauty in the rain, no music in its falling, just a cold, dark rain. It was like that moment in the debate she said about his time in Mexico “he choked,” and the whole tone shifted, the rain came down harder, the drops indistinct, the rush and static of fire sucked the air right out of us, and everyone went up in flames. All night long it beat down like that and blew: it choked the gutters, gathered in pools, it left us feeling damp, made the ground look beaten down.
Still I walked to the lake with a broken rib in my umbrella and the water rose to swallow the shores, it came up over the rocks and rushed from the spouts like a vein, the way it bubbled out.
Still I walked, pants dripping wet, so I could try to get it out, this feeling. Anyone who knows anything about spots knows there’s only so much you can do to remove them, the stain leaves a shadow. No one knows how it got there and now it’s like the whole world can see, it’s right there staring at us on the dining room rug.
Image borrowed from the Tarot, the nine of Swords.