Mama bruises to the touch
like a too-ripe peach.
Fussing like I used to,
she is put to bed.
When Doctor wants to draw
the shade, Mama shakes her head:
Let me watch the children play.
Noisy flowers from Preacher’s wife
start to argue in the kitchen.
Outside the bedroom window
I dig holes in the yard,
one for each stem. See, Mama?
See how their heads
bow to pray?
The sun beats those flowers
till they swoon in the heat.
A sorry rain soaks the dirt.
I pretend with all my might
till Sister drags me to the church.
Underneath this stiff pressed dress
my knees are red with clay.