farmhouse rain

it came quiet like

a drifter through our opened windows
it played the hair on my arms as i wrote
ran my skin and skipped over my freckles
trying not to trip
on its way up my shoulder
yelling my name like an old best friend
on a grade school playground
it had so much to tell me


Artemis hangs her hand off the bed and traces a vine on my wall.  It pries itself from the paper in little spasms and creeps to the ceiling where it flowers.  She buys cigarettes to light and let lie; she says she likes the smell of humans.  A linear callus stretches from the crook in her arm to the bones at her wrist; it is the print of her bow.  There is a hunter in my bed.