It will have been the next day that I can tell rain
yesterday. Save that enduring force of your face
behind my eyes, outward-looking. This wills me,
as the old woman spilling her groceries wills me,
as dusted, caked, erased, pushing trails through—
as the big sun over the bigger farm house waits.
When arid or when a razed plain, I do not eat,
save the fruit that reminds me of home. Then,
porch swelling like the fully outfitted house fly,
I will have been yesterday’s woman, and rain.
2025