Someone will not meet Noah,
at least not in this book.
I hold the flood in my pocket,
part of the story and the edge

of the rainbow from page seven.
In the picture, the sun cuts a hole
between clouds, just wide enough
for God to slip through.

And it rained . . . the words slip
from the waiting room;
I keep this scene as if it held
something beneath its waves.

Outside the clinic, I look
to the sky expecting a dove to fly
above me with its olive branch,
white wings open like hands.

But the rain begins and any hope
of birds is leaving. Somewhere
a woman is building an ark.
I know it.