It was a dry spell.

When the rain didn't come, the villagers

didn't give it much notice and instead

continued their unremarkable lives


As if, somewhere, in the depths of their cores,

past the flesh that stretched thin over their ribs,

and the beating metaphors in their chests,

they knew.

So, even as they watched their crops turn brown,

they had hope.

So even as the heat reddened their faces,

they had dreams.


They were foolish to have faith in such things


they knew better than

to puncture holes

in the sky.


to bend lightening

to create sparks.