Sunday When It Rains

I think on Sunday when it rains And the print stains on my fingers, Profiled whorls of black and pink Whilst the dishes fill the kitchen sink And the scent of burning lingers. An avalanche of loss and gains, The clock reverses with a slowing, Time unravels, so it seems, Scudding backwards into dreams With no care of where it's going. I light the candles in my skull, Watch the smoke curl from the tapers, Thumbed and flared and dying out, Potato peelings flung about Poorly wrapped in Sunday papers. I think on Sunday, staring dull, But not too hard to understand it, How a childhood closes eyes, How it curls it's toes and dies As if somehow God had planned it. Those shaking hands and bloody rags Were the tissues for my tears, Keepsakes kept, not put aside, For however much I tried They remained my souvenirs. I played an endless game of tag By myself in quiet sorrow, I was "it" and only me, Just the way it had to be And will never change tomorrow. I cry on Sunday when it rains Unwanted hurt gestates unbidden, I have no one close to tell, If no one cares, it's just as well, Hold it in and keep it hidden. I die on Sunday when it rains In a haunt of screams and violence, When small coffin for a child Was my wish, I prayed and smiled, To find some safety, rest…and silence.