The pack is filing
from my nowheresvilles
filling the halfway hotels,
braving the ruts and calling
one another via satellite.
A dollar says hello.

At home I try growing
a new life, one of many
women bored by
my womb’s mystery.

Who has time
to run a thumb
between her legs
and calculate
the temperature —
chipper and bitter
netherworld weathergirl.

More Poems by Eliza Griswold