Rain On

by Sabrina Almeida


1.     A Tent: to wake up unstartled
        and easy,
        a leaf in the river,
        your breath current
        pulling you into your parents’ side.
        Morning light softly filtered green
        through the tent’s thin veil
        that allows moisture in
        along with the smell 
       of the neighbour’s coffee

2.     Pavement: the hiss and whisper of collapse
        with the laugh and screams of children.
        As the rest of the class races inside,
        you move against the current
        to embrace the ambiguity
        of a recess not yet cancelled.
        In your eyes, everything is still possible.
        The sky cannot fall fast enough 
        to trap your feet in place
        so you are running
        before graduation 
        can catch you

 3.    The Roof: the shingles sing every time
         their fingers collide with the rain,
         a symphony washing over my skull
         and an ache for a love I’ve never had.
         What yearning:
         the beauty of human hands
         waiting for downpour to return,
         to reassure it that the wind screams
         just like us,
         just as startled to see us pass,
         unable to be stopped
         so keep going
         come back to me
         fall onto me
         as a buzz in my brain
         and melting amber evening light
         tell me you need me
         you who never die
         tell me you never knew music
         until you felt my touch


Sabrina Almeida is a 21 year old poet from Toronto, Ontario, where she studies management at the University of Toronto. Her poetry is featured in publications such as Acta Victoriana, The UC Review, and Wandering Autumn Magazine, among others. You can find her on YouTube @Sabrina Almeida and on Instagram @sabrina.almeidapoetry.