Eloísa Pérez-Lozano grew up bilingual and bicultural in Houston, Texas. She graduated from Iowa State University with her M.S. in journalism and mass communication and her B.S. in psychology. Her poetry has been featured in The Bayou Review, Illya’s Honey, The Acentos Review, The Ofi Press, Silver Birch Press, the 2014 Houston Poetry Fest anthology, the Austin International Poetry Festival’s 2015 “Di-vêrsé-city” anthology, the Rio Grande Valley International Poetry Festival’s 2015 “Boundless” anthology, and VONA’s Voices Against Racial Injustice: An Arts Forum, among others.
It was supposed to be 75 degrees outside,
perfect summer dress – flip flop weather.
The light humidity caressed my arms like a shawl
before I shut the car door and headed to work.
The drops started to fall as I looked for a spot
but no big deal, I thought.
Warm rain is like a liquid hug,
refreshing and cozy all at once.
But that didn’t greet me as I opened my door.
Wet wind threw a tantrum and flung it open
like an angry child invading the cocoon of my car.
Liquid bullets pierced my legs as I rushed out,
slamming the door behind me with a wind gust’s help.
I prayed not to fall or twist my ankles as
I ran away from the chill of invisible hands,
whipping under my dress and up the backs of my thighs,
uninvited, intrusive cold I couldn’t push away.
I like rain when it’s falling against a window,
sliding down the glass,
creating its drip, drip, drops of soothing lullaby
as I lay my head down to sleep on my bed.
It wasn’t the kind of rain I like.