if she wore her dresses
the same length as mine
people would gossip viciously
about her morals

if i slept       head barely touching
the string of freshwater fake pearls
mouth slightly open        eyebrows knitted
almost into a frown
people would accuse me of running around
too much

suddenly her eyes springing away
from her sleep intensely
scope the pulpit and fall
on me

i wonder did she dream
while baking cold-water cornbread
of being a great reporter churning
all the facts together and creating
the truth
did she think        while patching the torn pants
and mending the socks of her men         of standing
arms outstretched before a great world
body offering her solution for peace
what did she feel wringing the neck
of Sunday’s chicken breaking the beans
of her stifled life

she sits each sunday black
dress falling below her knees which have drifted
apart defining a void
in the temple of her life in the church of her god
strong and staunch and hopeful
that we never change
places


 = Joan Grant