Where I come from, rain is the same thing as love,
Falling rarely, and spoken about even less.
Daddy tells me the preacher man used to pray for rain.
I have been to every sermon, and still I wait.

The daily newspaper costs fifty cents.
Drought, death, and divorce cost fifty cents.
I wonder about the rain that does not fall,
Are we ready for Thou?

Hearse doors close like Holy Bibles,
Corpses are verses we have forgotten.
We, pallbearers, walk not knowing
What it is we carry.

I stopped waiting —
I wanted to feel the rain again.
I pray, I pray
That I do not forget how to.

Preston Wells grew up in Hugo, Oklahoma, and is now a sophomore at Dartmouth College. He is a cofounder of Savage Media, a Native American-led activist group.

Originally published in This Land, Vol. 4, Issue 2. Jan. 15, 2013.