it’s raining on the dirty dishes

It’s raining on the dirty dishes
tornado-torn kitchens
and on the you-can-be-anything-young-women
who clutch soiled sponges with dry, cracked
hands, wet wombs wanting, full minds
meandering: rinse, wash, give, rinse, wash, give
give more
and across the room the young men are in the rain dancing
drumming, guitar strumming, fatherhood still a fairy tale
in a far away land.

And across the street it’s raining
on the second grade girls
who slide off yellow buses and stomp through puddles
past a parked car with a man who watches
“You know,” he says to his girlfriend
“It’s a sin to raise kids in this world.”
The girlfriend clutches her stomach, the girls their Dixie cups
of cooking class leftovers, proud they already knew how to cut
and chop before their male classmates could.

And across the city it’s raining
on the I-can’t-believe-I’m-35-and-still-single-women
who clutch each other’s weight watcher arms
and remind themselves it doesn’t really matter
they could fall in love, get pregnant tomorrow
and still die before giving birth to their last hope
of not dying
alone.

And across the country it’s raining
on the I-just-wanna-be-teenage-mothers
on the abstinence educators, the pro-lifers
populationists and pro-choicers
and on the gay men who are told they shouldn’t raise
daughters.

But on the other side of the world it’s not raining
in the wells of the women who will walk miles every day for water
barefoot, backs bent, breasts heavy
clutching the world on their shoulders.