—after Anne Sexton

 

Under my feet the ground wails for rain.
Leaves have turned and fallen early. I yearn
to shed my skin a hundred times a day.

I know drought the way I knew to cry
entering this world, joining my mother in scream
and I was fed. I know drought

the way I hunger.
Somewhere, women feel this together:

               One packs lunch for her child at six AM
               One listens to day-old news on a dusk-drive to work
               One brushes the matted hair of a stranger’s dog
               One takes private selfies in a bathroom stall
               One sneaks pot gummies at chemo
               One hangs sheets outside to dry

So much space from them to me,
from my words to soil
from rain clouds to here. I want
to shed my skin a hundred times a day.

They said we’d get a storm by now.
They’ll say you’re one thing, but you’re not.
They’ll say you need this one thing,
but they’re wrong.

Everyone in me has thought of flying away
a hundred times today.