She Is Born in the Rain
The woman who had not yet been born had been riding
the winding local Trailways bus all morning, and into
afternoon. Her station was nowhere, a gray limestone
slurry in front of an anonymous store, the world.
The driver drew her suitcase from the belly of the bus
and set it beside her left loafer. Brown shoes and leather-
handled suitcase darkened, rainspot by spot. She was
a winter tree, a sick dog, blown sheet of newsprint
about to tear. Then the store behind her opened,
and warm air blew her old name off and away, over
the soggy fields, and into a tree with a sorry bird nest.
Five people talking at once might have been hundreds,
for all the sense they made. One of them, a little girl,
tugged to get her attention and called her Aunt Sister.
That silly name made the sun come out; she kept it.