21.2.24

Two Poems by Emma Grey Rose

REMOTE AREAS
 
white withering globes of light that float above flowers, blooming. planted seasons, seasons wilting, death, light, snow on—tree branches, leaves, veil of—sun. weak strains of pink light falling on—blankets of white, heaven.



WHERE THE YELLOW RAIN FALLS

 

There are clouds in the sky that are violent. I have the steering wheel. Yes, it is strange, I say. You told me this would happen. I am talking to you. The seats are all empty. The car drives along, under the clouds, the ones that are violent. It does so even when I lift my foot, forgetting to set it back down. The sky is dark. There is a burst of lightning, which is sudden. It is cold. Up ahead is a patch of black and green. I talk aloud, looking through the windshield. The wipers are slow to work. The wipers get stuck. Do you think it will let up? I ask. Should I pull off? The windows are down. There is rain. You do not talk back. The seats are all empty. I think of where to go. Perhaps off the cliff? I ask. The roads here, they are open. You know I love you, I say. You know I miss you, I say. The clouds are violent. Perhaps off the cliff? I ask.