Pluviophile

I am empty

except for the places where I am full:

the bucket swimming in rainwater/the floor beneath

stripped of polish and hardwood

the mattress soaked with my mother’s sweat/the pillows bleached clean

in places of my father’s absence

the laundry dripping mildew in the basement/the ghost who wears my clothes at night,

seeping into my dry, peeling skin.

I remember 

except for the times when I am reminded of:

the dresser drenched with jasmine/the clothing within

worn thin by moth bites and aging

the ceiling leaking paint from my sister’s canvas/the hole sealed off

with times my brother ran home through the rain

the shower steam evaporating into air/the reflection phasing through the mist into my body,

fogging the memories of their voices, their faces.

I have begun

to accept the people who I am forgotten by:

the woman with wrinkled eyes brimming with years/her vision above

washed of sight and color 

the child drowned in my yearning for fallen leaves/her windows rusted shut

and covered with my faded fingerprints

the poet under the river, her watery form flowing through the earth/she poured a liquid heart

into the places I never get wet.