Anemone Beaulier


Rain dots the tee stretched atop
my ball of belly: tarp over your home,
wet weighting its pink weave.

My skin pinks, too, with the cloudburst’s cold.
Beside me, the dog shivers her hair to tufts,
is once more soaked.

I imagine you blood-hot, blood-fed,
hushed by my hurried steps.
Soon, you’ll know torrents,

drops whipped over the skin,
chills whistling through cotton on a straight wind.
You’ll know the heel-rub of sodden shoes,

the tweaks and short breath of motion,
all this strangeness—
                                but also a world greening
before the deluge has ceased, cream clouding

a cup of tea, dog pillowed on your feet—
the warmth of your father’s hand
brushing raindrops from your cheek.

Anemone Beaulier

has contributed to Cimarron Review, Prairie Schooner, Poet Lore, Salamander, The Southern Review, and other journals. She grew up near Marquette, in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, and now lives in Fargo, North Dakota, with her husband and three children.