At the Time of My Birth

I wondered how long I could go on once the rain had stopped. My nerves were wedged like wings under a hat. Corncobs bobbed in boiling water. I kept a fist in my mouth. I was strident. The neat house curved like a draining sink. Hot cars shined outside. Their engines snapped like a chamois. I never wanted to leave. The streets were suet-thick. The hucksters had tinny voices. They had swollen drums. They had gravel underfoot and tongues that could peel citrus. Radios throbbed. The wet hush of my breath flung itself to mother. The soft dark skin. The sweet curl of the arm. The hum.