a wet day on a bus from new york back home to boston
i feel like some old god broadcasting the rain
my mother told me i would graduate someday
seed from stone, limb from seed
i would twist my thumb into the earth
and a mountain would spring up at my knees
maria—already showing—in the next seat’s
peeling a thin-skinned tangerine—
as big as this!—the eyes are still wide set
the ears climbed up the neck
(like monkeys up a tree)
and when she’s finished what she’s saying
holds out a sticky sweet-smelling handful of seeds
like some old god confiding the rain
