last night after a fight with my lover
I sat on my front porch under an umbrella
vicious thunderstorm pounding
down around me tugging
the umbrella slantways
and shaking as I smoked my cigarette
angrily, watching the park across the
street light up with electric daylight
it felt like Mother Nature laughing, as the
storm grew more furious and insistent
clucking her thunder-tongue in a mighty show
sending her rain slivering sideways
beneath my umbrella like finger pokes,
Girl, you know nothing of storms,
go put your petty squall to bed.

surrendering my anger to the gale,
returning inside to lover quiet,
stretched out on the bed, I strip
off my clothes, sodden with Her teaching,
lay down, offering my tongued apologies,
lover rubbing raindrops into my skin
like holy oils, and outside, the rain slowed
and the moon broke through.

R.B. Simon is a 49-year-old artist and writer of African and European-American descent. She has been published in the The Green Light Literary Journal, Blue Literary Journal, Electric Moon, and Literary Mama. She is currently living in Madison, Wisconsin, with her partner, teenage daughter, and four unruly little dogs.