Missionaries, Guyana 1852

You drug me to this godforsaken place, promising renewal. Instead, I got a scrub board, and laundry hung outside to dry until it is so stiff cardboard would be more comfortable. Look what lye has done to my hands. Look.

Ah, my sweet, you were becoming too soft, too complacent. You rant at no longer having housemaids and gardeners but the money previously wasted on them now helps our village children – provides books, inoculations.

You purchase chickens for people we don’t know.

We have new friends who share food, stories, laughter.

I feel trapped. Water everywhere. Four rivers, an ocean. Mountains with unpronounceable names. The jungle. Take me home.

We leave tomorrow. A kiss.

Tomorrow? I will pack this instant. Oh, how I long to see New York. Thank you, my love, thank you.

Wait, you misunderstand. You and I are traveling deeper inside the jungle. Our help is needed elsewhere.

Unbound

Black doesn’t suit her for she craves fuschia, amber, mauve, and cyan.
Peacock feathers and shiny gold beads are the things she needs
yes, needs to weave through her vibrant red hair.
Not this dark, veiled hat that covers her curls and hides her striking blue eyes.

But funerals demand black, scream for tears.
For one day, she’ll provide both.
A trip to Goodwill, menthol smeared beneath her eyes.
Sure, she can be the grieving widow for a day,
smile over tuna casserole and peach pie.

All she has ever wanted is everything he owned.
And, oh yes, now she has it.