from Citizen

The rain this morning pours from the gutters and

everywhere else it is lost in the trees. You need your

glasses to single out what you know is there because 

doubt is inexorable; you put on your glasses. The trees,

their bark, their leaves, even the dead ones, are more

vibrant wet. Yes, and it’s raining. Each moment is like

this — before it can be known, categorized as similar to

another thing and dismissed, it has to be experienced,

it has to be seen. What did he just say? Did she really

just say that? Did I hear what I think I heard? Did that

just come out of my mouth, his mouth, your mouth? The

moment stinks. Still you want to stop looking at the trees.

You want to walk out and stand among them. And as

light as the rain seems, it still rains down on you.

Bibliographical info

Claudia Rankine, "from Citizen" from Citizen: An American Lyric. Copyright © 2014 by Claudia Rankine. Used by permission of Graywolf Press,

Source: Citizen: An American Lyric (Graywolf Press, 2014), page 5

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