Current Issue About Editorial Note Archives Submitting Links		Andrea McBride Rain A shiny drizzle begins. We talk of going inside, but in the end, we lift our faces to the rain, splay our fingers like petals. ‘Nothing but a cut finger’ is an ant’s grief. Nothing that an ouch and a thin strip of band-aid couldn't fix. It’s different for us. We curl into a ball like the leggy knot an ant pulls itself into before it dies. Next Poem
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