The White Porch

I wrap the blue towel

after washing,

around the damp

weight of hair, bulky

as a sleeping cat,

and sit out on the porch.

Still dripping water,

it’ll be dry by supper,

by the time the dust

settles off your shoes,

though it’s only five

past noon. Think

of the luxury: how to use

the afternoon like the stretch

of lawn spread before me.

There’s the laundry,

sun-warm clothes at twilight,

and the mountain of beans

in my lap. Each one,

I’ll break and snap

thoughtfully in half.

But there is this slow arousal.

The small buttons

of my cotton blouse

are pulling away from my body.

I feel the strain of threads,

the swollen magnolias

heavy as a flock of birds

in the tree. Already,

the orange sponge cake

is rising in the oven.

I know you’ll say it makes

your mouth dry

and I’ll watch you

drench your slice of it

in canned peaches

and lick the plate clean.

So much hair, my mother

used to say, grabbing

the thick braided rope

in her hands while we washed

the breakfast dishes, discussing

dresses and pastries.

My mind often elsewhere

as we did the morning chores together.

Sometimes, a few strands

would catch in her gold ring.

I worked hard then,

anticipating the hour

when I would let the rope down

at night, strips of sheets,

knotted and tied,

while she slept in tight blankets.

My hair, freshly washed

like a measure of wealth,

like a bridal veil.

Crouching in the grass,

you would wait for the signal,

for the movement of curtains

before releasing yourself

from the shadow of moths.

Cloth, hair and hands,

smuggling you in.

Copyright Credit: Cathy Song, “The White Porch” from Picture Bride. Copyright © 1983 by Cathy Song. Reprinted with the permission of Yale University Press.

Source: Picture Bride (Yale University Press, 1983)