Pitter Patter

by Jack Garcia

The sound of rain, like gunshots in the night,

lashed liquid whips against the window pane.

But all the water could not drown my fright.

Or wash her wounds.  Or cleanse her of her pain.

“I would have killed myself were you not there”

was all she had to say for me to cry,

and though my tears joined hers in wet despair
I didn’t hurt enough to want to die.
The pitter patter of the rain like feet

reminded me of tiny children, scared,

running to their mothers—a safe retreat

—to plead with watered eyes they will be spared

the cruelties of the closet monster.

I’ll never know how the rain still haunts her.