Sanctuary

Pietra looked forward to laundry days at the river; she felt well-loved there. Her bare foot touching Maria’s, Maria’s touching Annelise’s, Annelise’s pressed into Graciella’s, one end of a rope tied around her ankle, the other around her son’s. He’d once floated downriver.

The women told stories against the background slap of their men’s shirts against rocks; the sound of cold water dripping from jeans hung on bushes to dry in the sun, reminding them their work was near completion.

Sometimes the friends stayed longer than needed. Braiding one another’s hair, laughing, perhaps drinking tea, for they knew what waited at home.

Revenge Takes Time

This Saturday, Pegman took us to Great Yarmouth, UK. What a marvelous place. The more I write Pegman stories, the more I want to travel. Thanks to Karen Rawson and J. Hardy for being our writerly tour guides, and to Crispina for suggesting this area.

Millwrights demolished the old windmill, claimin the canvas sails too tattery to catch wind.
They built a new one that accommodates a fancy turbine pump and patent sails.

Lack of wind ain’t the reason they tore down the mill.
We all knows there’s wind a-plenty long the river.

Twas the ghost.

Laugh. I won’t blame you. Some say ghosts don’t exist.
For others, they’re as much a part of everyday life as eatin mutton or patchin a tear in your shift.

Differing reasons brings them people back. Too much love. Not enough. Unimaginable violence. Left-behind wives. Or husbands.
They all gots excuses.

There’s little comfort inside the new mill. The old one sounded with rhythm wrought by the wind.
But I’ll sit here, sewing the rips Patrick McCrory tore in my shift,
biding my time til Patrick’s great-grandson arrives to oil the turbine.

Then he’ll get his come-uppins for the sins of his ancestor.