1.

I remember the rain that night,
and the next, when Sunset Boulevard
blurred and refocused through
the back-and- forth motion
of your windshield wipers.
It so rarely rained in Los Angeles.
I stood between you and your sister
beside the carousel in Griffith Park,
and listened to the poets read their work.
The light in your bedroom was soft,
made the mint green of your walls look indistinct.
Clumsy with desire, we fell into your bed,
and our legs got tangled, like finding seaweed
under the surface of the waves.
Your lungs, like water, rose
and fell underneath my palms,
and you held my body close to yours
as if it was some kind of miracle.

2.

I remember the rain that night,
when you took me down King Street
past our university, to the Indian take-away.
I was sleep-deprived from my flight,
and you said we could order in,
but I told you I liked the rain.
Inside the shop, I stood between
your legs and watched the water
stain the streets. It made even
the darkness glitter. I tucked your hair
behind your ears. When you kissed me,
I supported myself with one hand
against the rain-speckled window,
and the man behind the counter
shook his head at us. In my narrow
bed, you laughed at the mess
of my hair, wet from the rain.
I could hear it, soft outside,
and you were humming a song
I can’t remember now.