debutante in a thunderstorm

My top dress is edging on translucent now/under the rain/they’ve set up white crystal lanterns all around/the field/to refract over the grass,/across the curves of our nose,/against our eyelashes.

In between the plays of light, we’re angelic.

It’s hard to pin down the shapes of our faces/the mix of shadows/just barely make out each girl’s defining features/Jeanine’s sharp cheekbones,/Peony’s button nose/all shift between themselves/I see the creased downturns of their eyelids,/we’re young women,/somber and expectant./Then the lanterns catch the red of their cheeks/we’re flushed and laughing,/again,/building rock towers under an overhang,/making up languages that’ll only last weeks but./Peony and I have not spoken/dead languages to each other in years/Jeanine and I no longer stoop/picking for rocks/but if I did/would she follow?/I’m not quite willing to build rock towers alone just yet/yet/I smile at the two of them as I pass./walking along the granite-tile path they’ve laid down so/our dresses don’t scrape the mud/slight/it flickers off of my face fast/Peony’s eyes slide down my face without any sort of smile back./Jeanine doesn’t see me as she walks by./Tiles wobble under my steps/my heels slip along the wet surface/I stumble/barely because/no one sees.

The cold is always there/it does not let up/my skin is no barrier/it is cardboard, thick, soggy, and drooping under the downpour./Yes, the cold is always there.












Riva Jain is a Virginia-based creative who enjoys writing poetry and flash fiction. In her free time, you might find her writing music, taking photos, or curled up on the sofa with her guitar and some tea.