by Sarah Wetzel
The rain leaves fingerprints in
last summer’s dust
of the window,
while just off shore, anchored
the barge that will ferry the lucky.
In one version of my story,
I sell my hair
and the good skin of my stomach.
In one version, I carry you
from the burning car
and this time you don’t die.
The sea with the rubber hose of a river
down its throat
is swallowing as fast as it can.
If you watch long enough, you’ll see that rain
shapes the path in the pane
for the rain
that falls behind it —
yet if you put a hand
to the glass,
the water will fall toward you.
Our lives are always half over.
There’s still time.