he, seventeen,
He had no idea what poetry was
but I stupidly boasted
that I’d written some.
He said, “Let me see.”
It was a hot Summer’s day,
I remember.
Every window was open
but the sea air stayed outside.
La autoexpresion
was how I referred to it.
Self-expression
is what I do not call my writing now.
He read what I thought were my best.
At least he didn’t laugh.
A sudden storm
broke the steaminess.
He stood at the door,
gushed how much
he loved the rain.
I saw the folly
in all my teenage stuff.
I had to learn how
to write the rain.
--
Juanita Rey is a Dominican poet who has been in this country five years. Her work has been published in Mixed Mag, The Mantle and The Art Of Everyone.