Forecast Poem by Eliza Griswold
Forecast
The pack is filing
from my nowheresvilles
filling the halfway hotels,
braving the ruts and calling
one another via satellite.
A dollar says hello.
At home I try growing
a new life, one of many
women bored by
my womb's mystery.
Who has time
to run a thumb
between her legs
and calculate
the temperature —
chipper and bitter
netherworld weathergirl.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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4/19/2024 1:02:50 PM # 1.0.0.1119
