May B. Read Free Page B

wet,
          and hoarse from yelling,
          and done with childish dreams.

63

          I have decided
          there is no need to iron
          my dresses
          or the linens.
          And my hair,
          I don’t have to pull it back
          in a braid.
          My coffee
          doesn’t need to be hot.
          Who will notice?
          I think it might be September,
          if I’ve counted right.

64

          Some days I sit at the creek,
          the sun on my back,
          collecting pill bugs
          from under rocks.
          They curl into a ball at the slightest touch,
          then,
          waiting,
          unfold themselves to continue their journey,
          this time on my wrist,
          my thumb,
          the frayed cuff of my dress.
          I hold them,
          watch them rush,
          wonder
          what sort of task could hurry
          such a creature along.
          I lie in the sunshine,
          thankful
          for the freshness of the grass,
          the babbling company of the stream.

65

          Some days I sit in the rocker,
          the quilt about me though it’s hot outside.
          I shun the sunlight,
          groan to think of the water I must fetch,
          the steps I’ll have to take,
          the work that’s needed
          just to exist.
          Wouldn’t it be better
          to
          forget
          to
          care?
          Wouldn’t it be easier
          to stay in the hazy place where dreams come,
          to simply fade away?

66

          I crouch under the table,
          listening
          to the rain
          drip on the supper dishes I left out
          in my rush
          to stay dry.
          My thoughts drift back to Teacher.
          I can’t let them happen
          here,
          under the table,
          where there’s no task to keep me busy.

67

          The bedding is wet.
          I try to find a way to sleep
          that allows for comfort,
          but I can’t.
          My memories catch up with me.
          I wonder what Teacher had to say
          when I didn’t return to school?
          
“The girl’s finally got some sense,
          
staying home.”
          Maybe I was only smart before Teacher came.

68

          
It’s because you won’t try
.
          Teacher,
          I’ve tried more than you will ever know,
          out in the barn,
          with my book,
          and my voice
          shaking.
          The words on paper
          don’t match the sounds I make.
          I have to memorize
          to even try to read aloud.
          So
          if you think I can’t read,
          Teacher,
          then maybe you’re right.

69

          Coffee,
          a half sack of dried beans,
          flour, sugar, and cornmeal.
          The sugar’s not good for much
          when eating simple things.
          But the flour—
          with my bit of sourdough starter—
          keeps providing for biscuits
          like I used to bake
          with Ma.
          The last of the meat ran out long ago.
          A tin of peaches
          is all that is left
          of Mrs. Oblinger’s fine things.
          I’ve told myself I must hold out longer
          before I touch them.
          They’re stashed,
          like a promise,
          behind the rest.

70

          I pull the door open,
          stand with my hands on my hips,
          and yell into the morning:
          “Guess what, Mrs. Oblinger?
          I don’t think you’re too