That was the year the rain came and brought the ceiling down in my bathroom.
            It came down in a rush,
not all by itself, but with a little help from the point of my umbrella.

I went into the bathroom on purpose because the ceiling bulged,
            pregnant with rainwater
only the Sacramento sky could levy upon us.

And it wasn't only the bathroom ceiling coming down, furlined insulation
 	  thick with the rot of nests—it was also
the loaded roof of Lucky Market that creaked and gave way beneath 
	  the weight of water they didn't know 
collected between the air conditioner unit and the furnace—
	  the acoustic tiles came down, the fluorescent lights
dangled and the signs tore while customers ran loose between the aisles
	  and the racket of cans.

And it wasn't only Lucky Market flooding, but it was also the streets
            hip-high in river water,
and the cars stalled, their emergency lights flashing yellow
            against the gray water
while the river topped its banks, clutched at the roots of oak
            and elm and eucalyptus, trees tumbling down
as if lumberjacks called their names out loud in the torrents of wind.

And it wasn't only the trees and the ceilings crashing down
            but it was my job,
the inevitable step out of school into the arms
            of the Federal Land Bank
where the women wore nylons, and the men wore ties before yellow
            became acceptable between the gray folds
of lapel, before skirts could be any length other than kneehigh.

And they assigned me an office full of ledgers and computers called
 	  DecMate with women collectively known
          as the Word Processing Department
where I had my own office but could not shut the door,
	  where they gave me reams
to correct because I was the Proofreader, Grade V,
	  and each month they published
our mistakes in the official newsletter—who made what typo 
	  and how many days we were absent.

That was the year my name topped the list of who was out sick
          and my father's cat died in the ivy
and I learned to drink Yukon Jack without cringing,
	  and the walnuts in front
of the apartment had worms because of the rain.

It was the year I learned how to re-light the furnace that became 
	  my best friend though it kept going out,
and I ate peanut butter on toast during the breaks we took at work
 	  when Bessie asked me what I did to my hands.
And I looked at my hands stained from shelling walnuts and the scratches
 	  from the new cat and my short nails
and I didn't want my hands to show in the cafeteria where the other women
 	  wore polish the color of plums or else they crocheted.

That was the year I learned the shell stitch and I'd hook the yarn 
	  beneath my desk so the supervisor
could not see the pattern of rose and ivory I crocheted until I flooded 
	  the floor with shell stitches while
keeping my mind busy proofing reports on olives listed by size
	  and color and page number,
and the oranges—Valencia and Naval—and the price of alfalfa, 
	  of rice and corn, barley and
insecticides and pesticides and what the rain was doing to the crops.

I didn't tell them how my ceiling came down with a little help
            because I couldn't leave it alone
but had to prod with the point of my umbrella—a hole above the tub 
            to let off pressure, and a hole
above the sink where the water ran clear for a few days.

And when the ceiling came down around my head, it filled the sink
            with the chalk of sheet rock and the crust of my roof
and I could see the sky, the loud gray sky, still coming down before
	    I was fired. I still remember living
with the hole in my bathroom the day I was fired for the mistake
            in the Annual Report when my supervisor
said I'd let an error slip through—spelling 'each' aech. She couldn't show me proof
	   but said Besides, you're depressing everyone
because you're sad all the time and still they wouldn't let me close the door
	   while I handed over my automatic door key
and my ledgers and the Secretary's Manual issued to every woman
	   in Word Processing.

And they gave me a special escort down the plush green halls
            of the Federal Land Bank on American River Drive
where I'd never noticed before how the bathroom doors opened and closed
            like a respirator machine in the hospital intensive care unit 
or how the cursor lights flickered across the computer screens silently 
	   understanding the wordless commands of data processing, 
or how my car waited for me in the parking lot like a silver boat I could board—
	   lifeless until inserting the key. 
And I heard no sound leaving and I remember even when the ceiling let go,
	   there was no sound.