Perhaps it was the rain. Perhaps the slow
insistent drizzle, the humid air,
the windshield wipers’ steady tempo:
back and forth and back. The words swelled in your
belly, and broke like water: I’m pregnant,
Mother. Driving you and your boyfriend
in the wood-paneled wagon, she spent
no effort on parental reprimands.
Okay, we’ve got less than nine months to plan
your wedding. She decided how and where,
while in the back you silently held hands,
palms sweating, turning past the corner store
where you would often kiss goodnight. She said,
Of course, you will wear white. Just like I did.
