|Jul/Aug 2012 Poetry|
Roadside, US 64
I do not write this as a love poem.
My husband sits next to me, driving.
But, oh, your dress snakes your legs
insistent as you pin up laundry.
Sheets whip. Your brown hair
stains your head. Jesus, I believe,
waits in your mobile home, waits
for your praying knees. There are
other prayers that wait astride the air.
In one such prayer, I am the dress
snaking your legs. In another, Jesus'
dusky waiting mouth.