My neighbor says we had a she-rain
and I think: skirts, oath of water, declaration
of green, crocus opening, my mother, birth.
Not the virga from miles away— false promises
dispelling into dust before ever reaching earth—
but layers, slips, fiesta skirts, steady sheets.
My mother, once a girl of stream, shower, downpour,
deluge. Skirts, sparkled with sequins, ruffles, and lace,
as we slip into our dancing feet, chance inside the silver shindig of rain.
MARY MORRIS is the author of three books of poetry; most recently, Late Self-Portraits, selected by Leila Chatti for the Wheelbarrow Book Prize (MSU Press), Dear October (Arizona-New Mexico Book Award), and Enter Water, Swimmer (runner-up for the X.J. Kennedy Prize), both from Texas Review Press. Her poems have appeared in Poetry, Poetry Daily, The Massachusetts Review, Boulevard, Prairie Schooner, and Verse Daily. Kwame Dawes recently selected her work for American Life in Poetry from the Poetry Foundation.