Rain in Paris
by Eugene Gloria
There’s another version of rain and it’s called a city
where on a misguided mission we set out umbrella-less
and free as we walked from the Métro. We let the rain in,
gave it permission to swallow everything we had become: wet
unhatted and cold. Rain being rain, only understood
its rain-ness, its superiority to itself. We were in it,
but not of it like blown newspaper stirring on a gusty street.
Except, for us, there was no joy in our flight. Our heads
lowered like cloistered monks headed for their cell—
or to a temple or maybe to a hut. We bowed to the rain,
humbled by our hunt and spat on for renouncing our faith
in finding a plaque saying Eureka! you’re here. Except this
search only landed us in a state of agitation, and welcomed by
the antemundane supremacy of rain, its dark skin on our faces.
How can we be lost when we’ve been found by the rain?
Our street map shamelessly unfurled, now beaded,
making pretty puddles before us and blotting all
the necessary answers we needed to find our way.
In a letter to his mother, José wrote about the rain
in Madrid, its piercing cruelty in January.
Just as a love letter fiercely keeps
hidden the nostalgist in us all. The rain
is not the rain, but a remembrance of who we were—
living with nearly nothing, yet feasting on desire.