on tuesday i found myself trapped inside a raincloud

By Ben Starr

Outside the husk of a 7-11, I freeze,
stuck as a mule deer, and become wet
breath, braided in vines of leadened
mist, buoyant alongside water and dust.

Truth is, I was lucky. On Venus, rain
clouds are made of sulphuric acid
and I am already predisposed
to bad skin, from my mother.

You remember your mother? Before
sickness breached the levees and you
were flushed from your home, spit
out amongst abandoned coastal plains.

That was not the first time she had unleashed
torrents of violent nature. Once, she carved
deep into her palm with a pearl-handled
boning knife politely refusing to kiss bone,

just dull gray bands of recycled skin
and punishing red muscle. Draining,
she watched the innocent sink blush
(this was back when she still had hair).

Ben studied poetry in college and as part of the UCLA Extension Writers' Program.
His work has been published or is forthcoming in Dishsoap Quarterly, Maudlin House, Gone Lawn,
SoFloPoJo and other journals. Find more of his work on X @benjaminstarr and at benstarrwrites.com