It did not rain

I go back finding myself going that way these days

Back home when it was still there.

Now it's Stein-like: there is no there there...anymore.

Back to an April turned less arid by a profusion of tears

as I run after Tito Willy, who became as elusive

as words, as dead as death itself;

Back to a dream-like November,

Mama looking straight into my eyes from her deathbed,

calling me by her dead son's name.

I ran away only to run back only to run after her

the way I ran after Tito Willy,

whom I became in her dying eyes.

Home then became as elusive as those two deaths,

tangible only because Mommy stayed (thankfully now)

rooted there on the side of the bed

telling me,

"I can't leave.

I don't want them talking ill of me after all these years

I stayed and suffered."

I did not run this time, and like her stayed

rooted in the middle of the bed

looking straight into her eyes

telling her,

"Don't tell me about people taking ill, Mommy.

I'm gay. I eat those ill words for breakfast.

Just give me the cue and we will both leave here

together."

And maybe, those same ill words (coming from me)

killed her in the end.

And so I compel myself to go back now

to that arid December, running again

to a home that died with Mommy, after three deaths in a row,

while the skies punish me by not raining.

Now back here, drained of vitality and too tired to ask,

"When do we leave?"