thoughts   |    issue 012

what are the contents of city rain?

What are the contents of city rain? 

I often wonder as I step out through asphalt glazed with it. Small placid puddles form as their reflections are portals to unnoticed abysses of passing cars and people hurrying - inverted, horizontally and vertically in a different dimension of possible, brighter existence. 

It is toxic, they say, a precipitation from moisture and the sweat of the city itself. Merely carried by the heat it also generates; an energy that it uses so profusely that soon it will burn out and die, and this city rain only a small favor, if a cool respite; an illusion of composure, a veil of softness.

Yet, what a comfort it truly is. To know of its filth, but to feel it on one’s belongings, on one’s body - as the umbrella is forgetten or socks are soaked - as a blessing. The smell evoked from grass and soil, metal chairs, and graveled edges of riverbanks, drowning the smoke in the air a little. 

On nights of abandon, they set a glimmer on the streets, an unforeseen residue of oval flecks made of water and a sliver of slime. The lights glow differently with it, delicate little prisms on glass doors, windows, street lights, and on my skin. On my skin, where its presence is one I wish to keep. 

How do we contain it? 
What are the contents of city rain? 

 © 2018 by Ishka Mejia

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