There is mist, which is rain with a dirty eraser; there is thin
rain; and then there is concentrated rain. Rain’s evil spirits.
Rain turned the condo into a cave. The fabled uncles
dove into the bottomless lake; there are too many aunts.
Phyllis (don’t call me Aunt, I’m not your aunt) on the balcony
under a red-striped golf umbrella like a supplemental cave,
smokes cigarette after cigarette. She makes rings, splashing
in a puddle with a thin bare toe. A myth of small creations.
On the kitchen table, Mr Coffee radiates; sisters gather there
with mismatched cups and mugs and tell each other’s stories.
If a limb somewhere snapped and killed not Mr Coffee, just
his power, then what? Was that the origin of demons and gods?