VIRGA
There is a kind of rain that
never hits the ground
never collects in fat pools
to reveal your flaws
wriggling like worms:
the ex-wife, misplaced
money, lost friendships
strung like shark teeth
on a thread. Do not
confuse this rain
with the kind pelting
the hosta patch, deck
chairs & bike chains,
the one leaking through
ceilings onto splash
cymbals my 12-year-old
summons like a sorcerer.
If I were to die, rain
might or might not exist—
the hostas, azaleas, plastic
pails, my drummer son,
too. I would no longer be
woven into rain’s measures
like a fermata or coda
& maybe no eye would
be mirrored in water—
only branches & nude
grapevines shimmering
in ribbed twilight, wordless
free of mistakes.
Sometimes, the post-storm
moonlight shatters
my pupils & my wife
& words are all I have.
Long ago, every feeling
demanded alms
but time makes little
sense now. The seasons
spin like a top & I
stand in the road—
a heretic of presence
sniffing the sulfur
of struck stone, licking
salt from her
mouth & typing
another verse to be
read when I am
gone. Virga
is a kind of rain
that evaporates
before hitting
the ground &
really—isn’t that all
this ever is?
Author’s Bio
Matt Pasca is a poet, teacher and traveller who believes in art’s ability to foster discovery, empathy and justice. He is the author of two poetry collections—A Thousand Doors (2011) and Raven Wire— and serves as Assistant Poetry Editor of 2 Bridges Review. Pasca, a New York State Teacher of Excellence, has taught English to high school seniors for 24 years.
www.mattpasca.com