Before they told me I shouldn’t,
I would stand
under the eaves
during a rainstorm
and catch the stream of water
that poured from the garage’s tin roof
through the broken drain spout.
It carved a furrow
in the earth beneath it
and I would stand straddling
that shallow divide
and dare myself
to get wetter
than I knew I should
with the icy drops
pulling my fine hair-
back when it was blonde-
long and straight
across grass-stained cotton shirts.
I always snuck in soaked,
stripping off my clothes
and drying them before
anyone knew.
It was only all for me.
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