Weather comes, even to the city. Leaves are rocketing down the alley. My coffeecup holds out for rain, under a new leak. Filtered through packed
insulation, the water’s tea-colored. If he comes now, so what? I’ve got an awkward bed, and we haven’t met. I’m waiting for his half of my broken necklace, his phobias like mine, our codeword.
Lightbulbs pop as he goes by in his blue static. I’ve heard buried weeds leap through the pavement where his feet touch. Under pulsing lightning, petunias in the window flap crazily open. [End Page 5]
Sarah Johnson received her MFA from Columbia University in 2011. She is currently a PhD student and Creative Writing Fellow at the University of Missouri.