Drop

Drop. Drop. Drop. 

I hear my siblings splatter against the ground

smeared with an aftertaste of deep release

against rooftops, against asphalt, against heavy

shoulders ridden with the stubbornness of regret,

against the feather light nature of a child's head

Drop. Drop. Drop.

Grapevines dangled with the mother's sweet fruit

now jeweled in clear precipitation waiting to be plucked

from the warm hands in tired hums

entrenched wrinkles carrying garnered memories

containing a scorching sun and meager wages

Drop. Drop. Drop.

I wonder if falling in these secret places 

will reveal the crevices of life unseen to those

whose hands bear no scars at all

the fall does not dictate where we land

whether in a beggar's cup or in a celebratory wine glass

Drop. Drop. Drop.

In the envy of the land our thudded presence silences

the creeping burrows of wavering malice

in those moments both gold and linen can sense 

the rush of our carelessness as we descend

we come knocking on marble and a tin roof

on the brow of a newborn and the cracked tombstone

our mercy is at bay with your matters