pictures on sundays
wearing pure white
pearls, flowers, smiles
but not before
we wash in the family tub
first dad and then my ten brothers
then mother
then me
cold
dirt
shame
s i n
it absorbs deep into
my soft skin
my thick blood
my frail bones
leaving me scabbed
broken apart
dirtier than before
but mother covers it all with white
smile, she says
but I’m thinking of willow trees
carving my name with a sharp knife
pomegranate juice running down my chin
screaming at the stars
straighten up, she says
but I’m thinking of foggy forests
walking barefoot through mossy earth
honey dripping from my fingertips
bathing in the moonlight
be sweet, she says
but I’m thinking of roaring waves
sunlight on freckled shoulders
seaweed stuck between toes
salt water taffy kisses
be quiet, she says
but I’m thinking of throwing things
messy hair and dirty fingernails
cadmium yellow, ultramarine blue
painting my own life
but not before
pictures on sundays
wearing pure white
pearls, flowers, smiles
Shoebox Poetry: Last week I rediscovered an old box of photos I inherited when my grandmother died in 2004. This poem is the first in a series of poems using those images as inspiration. Today’s photo is of my grandmother as a young woman. There is no date, but the sweeping handwriting on the back says “Kate, Gill St.” And yes, she told me her entire family bathed in the same water every Sunday before church. Can you even imagine?
Bridgette Tales 