Early morning in late summer rain I drive downtown

big drops hit the car as if to break the glass.

While I review dates, names, wars, the Constitution

they drown out the noise of traffic;

they try to reach me,  soak me.

The morning of my immigration interview

I leave two daughters sleeping behind curtains

They look safe.  They make me happy even when they sleep.

I check again for my green card, my foreign passport

I look at my books, think, stay, be here for me when I come back.

Some books are native, most are translated.

Today I translate myself from foreign student

to immigrant, to citizen.  So much rain.  So many books.

So many roles.  The children and the books accept them

My oldest daughter says,  Mom, you’re so weird.

A badge of honor from a fifteen-year-old

who looks at me and sees different faces even when she

wants one,  sees fissures, scars, seams where she

craves smoothness,  a healing gesture,  like I do

as I peer through the rain seeking a parking space.