She was artistic as hell,
creating lovely drawings at will,

like the one of us in the rain
under the giant umbrella.

She claimed it showed
how her tears could not move me

to love her the same ferocious way
she loved me as if I could save her

from the undeniable forces
conspiring against her

in this sad life with its hard edges
and unforgiving tragedies.

Rain is another name for death,
she claimed casually.

But I couldn’t imagine
any five-day forecast

predicting a good chance of death
next Wednesday.

She was over-emotional,
but she sure could kiss

and back then that might
have been enough.

She was working on a series
of extremist abstract fairy tales.

They’re all about us, she told me.
Wolves and monsters and such

captured in watercolors on canvas.
No wonder she hated the rain.