Mama Says
Hold this, mama says
& I do; wads of lace
with grass stains growing
deep, dirty red-white anklets
with holes at the heels,
scuffed plastic white shoes.
Soles worn out, mama says
& I think of every Sunday
all my life, all the shoes,
all the time spent butt-in-pews—
Stay still, mama says
& I don’t; she tugs back
curls from my face,
wrapping them in a bow
pure as detergent flakes,
bass-belly-white, clean.
Don’t forget, mama says,
looking for my parasol,
clutching paw-paw’s bible
to her chest.
we walk the little dirt path
down to church before the morning
sun is even up & I wonder why
the parasol, & why the white clothes
in the dirt, & why we try so hard
why? I ask mama
& mama settles on the pew
with paw-paw’s bible,
silent
