by Simon Anton Nino Diego Baena

In my balcony I will sit and listen to the music
you create with your slender fingers whenever
you take a leak above my roof of nipa leaves
every time you visit this city of sleepy streets
and dull houses where the scent of sugar burns
in February. Feverishly my ears anticipate
hearing your falling waters as I stare
at my dad's pictures taken last summer
in Alhambra before he passed away. Outside
the cable wires sway in harmony with your bellowing
melody. And the windows are moistened with tears.
Rain, I want you to know that I don't seek rainbows
even if there are landslides and bloated corpses
flooding the news because of your monsoon.

Copyright 2024 by Red River Review. First Rights Reserved. All other rights revert to the authors.
No work may be reproduced or republished without the express written consent of the author.