Anthony Frame

Anthony Frame is an exterminator who lives in Toledo, Ohio with his wife. He is the author of one book, A Generation of Insomniacs (Main Street Rag Press, 2014) and two chapbooks, Paper Guillotines (Imaginary Friend Press, 2010) and Everything I Know … (ELJ Publications, forthcoming). A third chapbook, To Gain the Day, is forthcoming from Red Bird Chapbooks. His work has been awarded an Individual Excellence Grant from the Ohio Arts Council and recent poems have been published in or are forthcoming from Harpur Palate, Third Coast, The North American Review, Redactions, The Dirty Napkin, Gulf Stream and diode among others. Learn more at


When Rain isn’t Rain

Sometimes, it’s air, sticky but still breathable, it needs no clouds,
as if it comes up from the soil, heavy but too heavy to be held

by gravity. And people walk through it, unaware. The day won’t stop
so we ignore it, pretend all oxygen is dry, even though, near the river,

we can see it hovering, we can hold it, we can touch it if we
hold out our hands. Like the girl in the picture on the lamppost,

did you see her? Try and you might taste her purple lollipop.
She used to walk through this neighborhood, here where the police

don’t come, where there are cameras on every corner. Sometimes,
rain seems to have a color, even on a day like today, dry as dirt.

It means the swamp is trying to come back, that damp barely hidden
beneath our concrete. It means you can’t tell your skin from the wind,

the air from sweat. It means we can ignore anything, if we want,
dry rain, damp air, rainbows like halos above the river, children stolen

beneath the sun, within the shadows of cameras. The third girl this month.
Sometimes, the rain is invisible. Sometimes, it’s just waiting to be seen.

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