to get back to workin in a couple weeks,
soon as the stitchin heals up. I keep thinkin
that doctor did something wrong, cause I know
I’m stitched up tighter than before
and then I keep thinkin maybe
Papa had something to do with it.
Maybe he asked him to stitch me shut.
Papa don’t look at me the same as before,
in fact, he don’t look at me much at all.
Says I shouldn’t a worn my hair down,
wasn’t proper, and in the dark the other night,
he told Mama, when he looked at me, all he saw
was what that boy did.
Soon as my dress started gettin tight
he stopped takin me to town and said
I’d be best to stay in the house and make myself
a new one.
The day the tall stranger come with a woman
in a blue dress and feathered hat,
he called me out so’s they could get a good look.
She was real nice and said I had “nice eyes” and
“a good jaw line.” The man shook Papa’s hand
and they drove off. “Best thing,” he said,
“lucky they come along,” but he wasn’t talkin
to me. He don’t talk to me anymore.
All he said when my pains come was,
“Best get in the truck.” Mama come too
and she squeezed my hand so tight
under the edge of her skirt,
it liked to fall right off.
Mama stayed with me,
wiped the sweat from my face, and
when it was all done she wrapped
up my chest so tight I couldn’t hardly breathe.
S’posed to keep the milk from comin, but it did
anyway and I thought I know
how the fruit must feel
if nobody comes to take it when it’s ripe.
Just oozes with juice till it dies.
~Darci Hawxhurst for the Poplar Grove Muse