by DW McKinney

I dream about rain in March. About standing in air thick as cotton. About craning my neck toward light gray clouds. About a sky filled with fat droplets that burst across my forehead. About being a supplicant in need of cleansing. About a different light gray afternoon in another March years ago. About gunshots electrifying the air. About a boy who pinned me down and died. About a life that was given for mine, maybe? About red blossoming across the boy’s back. About losing the weight of a body that feels so much like my own.