Walking in the Rain
I leave the lights on, broken glass uncollected on the table, the front door open. I leave the house without knowing, with all evidence inside me that the world is sinking. I make my way out into the street. It’s raining. I’m on a backcountry road, and don’t know where I’m going, but I keep walking. No tears, though the raindrops are helping as they worm down my face, a feeling that slows the rate of my breathing, and there are headlights on the passing cars that help me see, but not what I’m finding, and the people that see me perhaps know what I’m doing, because I could only be doing so many things walking toward woods in the dark raining, but none of them are stopping. I’m not stopping. The broken lines in the road are fading and I’m warned where I’m going is a dead end. It’s cold, and it’s raining so hard now I can’t see my feet clearly, but they won’t stop. The rain gets so heavy on me, the hard forms of my body blur, and I learn, this is the pace I’ll walk better than any.
Dustin Pearson is the author of Millennial Roost (Eyewear Publishing, 2018). He is a McKnight Doctoral Fellow in Creative Writing at Florida State University. The recipient of fellowships from Cave Canem and the Virginia G. Piper Center for Creative Writing, Pearson has served as the editor of Hayden’s Ferry Review and a Director of the Clemson Literary Festival. He won the Academy of American Poets Katharine C. Turner Prize and holds an MFA from Arizona State University. His work appears in Blackbird, Vinyl Poetry, Bennington Review, and elsewhere.