Prelude

COHORT 2

When I left for London, the rain

grew dimensions, a young 

October storm filling out 

her curves. My hands, empty

theatres, opened to receive it. 

I saw my childhood

street in my mind’s eye, 

that California sear. Imagine,

Morgan Freeman coaxed from a sun-

soaked road in a movie my father 

always cites. Call me a citizen.

Call me a city. All I wanted was to stop 

wanting more. I let the English rain 

carve me hungry again, limn me

into an outline of flowers angling 

out of the earth like gaping beaks, 

my outstretched hand —