Rain or shine, July.
Our mother’s blue tent.
A hilltop––up the gravelly dirt
past my grandparents’ camp.
Dawn wet barefoot
to outhouse & back.
Grass threaded toes.
Days of damp. Our sleeping
bags won’t dry––
go the laundromat
in Clarence’s tan
four-door Ambassador.
Our legs stick. Vinyl
protect seats from children’s stains.
Marguerite rides in front.
Her wheelchair folds itself up.
Quick in the trunk.
A dashboard is where controls are.
And a Mary I’ve never seen before.
Blue & golden robe. Fingers tight
to her heart. Pretty eyes shut
as if she’s scared for us.
How does Mary stay standing up?
Mary has a magnet. We just can’t see it.
Mary is not to be touched. She’s put here
to forgive us. The news spreads fast.
Marguerite’s voice stings. Mary!
Is vanished from the Rambler.
Of the deadly sins. Stealing is.
What if I had been the one? Brave
enough to slip Mary under my shirt.
To keep her awake. All night. Lying.
Beside me in the tent. Any one of us
would keep a Mary. All to ourselves.