By Donald C. Welch III

Nothing is natural about central air systems.
Oxygen never enters or leaves; it cycles through.
Air tastes sterile in hospitals because it is.
Nature refreshes air with storms, but here it can’t rain.

I work full-time in the children’s wing of the hospital.
One patient in particular is sleepy and unresponsive
until you put a rain stick in his hands. Then he shakes it
with his whole body, following instinctual choreography,

as if inviting a flood into these narrow hallways,
waves breaking down all the handicap-accessible doors
and washing tiled floors clean of disinfectant scents
accumulated over years of antediluvian delusion.

Disaster is the only proven medicine we have.
The rest is prescribed human stubbornness.
In a world where we breathe the last breaths
of our dead—it’s up to you kid. Bring us the rain.

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One Response to “Rainmaker”


  1. […] C. Welch III contributed a poem, “Rainmaker,” to the Autumn 2015 […]


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