The Beginnings of Rain

One day I stopped trying, frying, and buying
goods for the house. I stepped back from countertops,
let the crumbs wilt, and listened
from behind walls to the sounds of heaving.
My family, motherless, giving birth to itself.
My husband, screeching, like I used to do,
at all he had to do before the next errand.
And the children, coming to him,
as they used to do to me, with knees
bleeding, tummies hungry and bodies
to be put to bed. And I listened,
from behind walls, to the winds inside
my own skin, shut the windows of my fingers,
refused to lift a hand, heard the storm stirring,
clouds converging over my own dry land,
and listened to the beginnings of rain.