The Rain Doesn't Know Me Anymore I, who for so long, shaped the forgotten metaphor: curved tusks, howdah and mahout of elephant. Who splashed the Bird of Paradise against a cemetery of cars, sought the root in cabook earth, the dream that meandered, got lost in an orgasm of blood. I, who held the palm-tree's silhouette against the going sun, a woman, a child long enough to divide a continent, have new revelations: I have circled the sun. The white marshmallow land is now mine, conquered, cussed upon, loved. Look at this other dreaming face, these new muscles, tempered bones, black eyes blue with a new landscape, legs dancing the white slopes like a dervish. Against paddy-bird havocking in tall grass, bluejay raucous, cardinals the colour of blood. For the slow deep rhythms of the home-coming catamaran, 747 screaming, wounding the night like a spear. The monsoon rain doesn't know me any more: I am snow-bank child, bundled, with snot under my nose, white fluff magic in both hands. Once, rice and curry, passiona juice, now, hot dogs and fries, Black Forest Ham on Rye. So what's the essential story? Nothing but a journey done, a horizon that would never stand still. (with acknowledgement to Toronto South Asian Review). with kind permission from the poet Rienzi Crusz, who was born in Srilanka, and immigrated to Canada in 1965; he is now a Canadian citizen, and is a Senior Reference and Collections Development Librarian at the University of Waterloo. His next book (by the same title of the poem will be out in the Spring of 1992.

This article was originally published in Cross Cultures Magazine in Volume 1 - Issue 2 - 1992. Unauthorized copying, distribution or other usage without express written permission of the publisher is prohibited.