Rain Coming

Before the first drops fell,
the dog knew from his fur
that rippled with unseen static,
and under our swing
he slunk, whimpering
at the distant thunder and
flashes far away like fireworks
on the other side of the ridge.

We also felt its crackle
as we sat still, silent, waiting
for the first drop, the first sign
of long drought’s end,
afraid to speak lest the roiling
clouds turn away and head instead
up the bend of the creek,
away from this place we love.

Nor did we stir at the first
patter on the ground just out
of sight, there in the dark,
soft and stealthy as the footfall
of the fox we sometimes spied
stealing around the house.

When drops as big as dimes, then
silver dollars, fell near the spot
where we sat swaying, we leaned
back and laughed ‘til we were soaked
to the skin.

**

Parlor Weddings

Plastic orchid corsages
were pinned to the dresses
of nervous young brides
who appeared with no notice
at Daddy’s front door.

Not the wedding she’d dreamed of,
her mother had cried when
they’d called first to tell her—

not just what they said,
but the words left unspoken,
implied by their hurry—
It can’t be pure passion—

But I was a girl,
barely more than a baby
who peeped from the hallway
as they exchanged vows,

which I probably listened to
closer than he did,
but did not quite grasp—
though I think maybe she did—

for one of them cried when
she caught me there spying
behind Mama’s curtains
and Daddy, the young preacher,
said without thinking,
“No babies at weddings!”

**

Wash Tub Ablutions

Everyone in Zip City knew
that cleanliness was next to
godliness, despite the lack of
modern plumbing, so by day
we relied on the little wooden
outhouse, a test of our bladders
(How long could we wait?) or
our lungs (How long could we
hold our breath?) and at night,
we used the slop jar she slid
beneath our bed. Bathing was
simpler, squatting in a number ten
wash tub heated with water from
the wood stove as our granny
scrubbed us hard with a clean rag,
a rough brush, and lye soap.
Squealing in mock humiliation,
we relished the tales we’d tell,
returning to our homes in town
as if from some remote village
in Africa. Our skin still raw from
the scrubbing, surely then we felt
just a little closer to God.