Among the flowing white sheets, in the peachpit of the summer,
I see her pinning clothes up on the line.
She whistles,
she sings,
she unlaces her shoes,
and she takes care of
the child and the home and the garden.
She teaches me to be quiet, so I am quiet.
She teaches me to wash dishes and clothes for my husband,
to fold over dress shirts the right way,
to sweep and mop and tend and care,
to be sweet as sugar and as obedient as a lap dog,
to pray to God for a husband
who will sow the seeds and make a woman out of me.
I swallow my amens and
I pray for long summers and quiet naps and
myself in the other room, laughing on the phone with my mother.
I pray for a peeled orange, for a soft afternoon,
for my best friend laying on the porch swing with me.
I pray for myself all the time.
I am smart enough to know that
there will always be the leash,
there will always be the end of the night,
there will always be a shred of my father in my husband.
But I pray that the leash will never be too tight,
that his hands are light,
that he’s sees a shred of his mother in me,
that I can run barefoot in the sunshine until I tire out.
I pray that I can still be a girl,
even when I am a woman.