What’s The Weather Inside Me

By Gabrielle Néla

Humid Human

An ID

A low hum

An introduction to

slippery sides of self

The weather inside is light

Dancing in raised dewdrops

And stripes in the skies of me

Rays seen through chimney’s residue.

I’d rather an hour

Inside a dew drop

Than minutes on

A wilting flower or seconds on

Glaring hot rooftop.

In Human,

I’m humid.

A microcosm of

The world

A dollop of earth

Mostly water

On someone’s palm.

Held and holding

Of and in

The bubble feels like a

Microscope

I am not kept in but

The realm can be and is

Anthropo-

morphized.

Droplets morph into another

And race down the glass visor

That protects me from myself

The “ID” in Humid that

Severs “M.E.” from humAN…

And I think of sunny days

and starry nights

And question:

“Did Vincent tell us

Those were sheaves of wheat

Or did man I.D.

Them as other than…”

I’ll sift as I sit.

Though warm and wet

I’ll allow the sun to rise

So long as all other

separations and

hesitations remain

Unleavened.

This Humid Human

Sees through

Furrowed brow,

Beaded temple,

And through disguise.

Inward.

Towards

Damper soils

Softer soles

And

Temperate eyes.

©2022 Gabrielle Néla