always dry and hot. The hollow voice
downstairs drifted up. I looked up
from my mother's 7th grade science book
with large print. On page 26, an astronomer,
who no one ever listened to, predicted rain
for seven weeks. After the voices drowned,
the woman who claimed she always had
a pocketful of stars came to get me.
I hid until I became too big, too thirsty,
for my own planet. Years later, when I told
everyone how I had discovered rain, no one
listened. They were too busy complaining
about the heat.
