The Wardrobe’s Best Dressed: The Autobiography of Rain by Lana Hechtman Ayers

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Of the Many Things I Was Taught Not to Do

after Annie Lighthart

I was taught not to repeat anything I saw.

Not the river of night and its luminescent-
eyed fish paddling above me.

Not the fir-covered hills like soldiers
with rifles at ease, finally retreating.

Not the tufted skirts of sky, their billowy
crinoline rustling of maple tree leaves.

Not the waters of the Yaquina, its surface
ripples like the footprints of pale ghosts.

I have lived in so many theaters of the mind
and wanted to kiss and tell all the secret plotlines.

But my mother warned Loquacious girls go to hell.

I’m there anyway, so here’s what I know—

how mallard’s wings flap like urgent letters
fluttering their way to you;

how yellow leaves flit in the breeze like the humble
prayers of very young children;

how earthworms sing in the rain, a nearly silent
song of loneliness;

and love, well, love is the color
of the sky anytime you look up.

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