Dark in Charleston. The rain
throwing itself to the street.

Each drop a Southern hussy
Falling carelessly

that they might be as drunk
as she is. Stumbling,

arm around my shoulder.
The other hand pointing

towards some other party
like a pirate points to land

but I see no haven.
She sticks her tongue out

catching no drops
and I feel my eyes water

not only from the smell of warm beer
on my dress, but because

I remember a girl so alive.
And now I am watching her

dig her grave
With a silver spoon.

Do I also dig?
DO I bear the blame?

Sister, feel the rain.