Rain Dance

by Mimi White

Would like to sing,
but the sea ran across the road.

People are eating,
others driving in the rain.

Tomorrow the news,
but today the car drives

round and round
Jamaica Pond, The Hebrew Home,

past the place where Mother died.
Names are rivers

in the wilderness,
streams on old maps:

Umpqua, Bitterroot
as if naming could slow the rain.

“Where’s my cane?”
Here’s the door

we blow through,
wind-driven, not yet sad,

and neither of us new.
Dad sings, “Cat scan, dog scan,

zebra scan, too.”  Taps his side,
“Here’s my wallet.  Take my cap.

Last time they burned a hole
through Lincoln’s head.”