Antiquing
My eyes were drawn to a battered old basin.
Despite a chip in the enamel, my hands
felt comfort in the patina, much like the
surface of my grandmother’s claw foot tub.
Often, I rested against that perfect slope,
up to my chin in Ivory Soap suds.
In such a basin, a woman might snap beans,
slice cucumbers for pickling, or shuck corn.
In summer, Mother filled her basin high
with ripe berries to wash and “pick over.”
In time, jars of jam and jelly sparkled
from oilcloth lined shelves.
The basin rode home with me, beside
a flour sifter and small iron skillet.
Driving
in silence, from deep my memory,
a scene emerged , clear as the road before me:
A country kitchen, sink with hand pump,
woodstove nearby, kettle steaming on top.
A young man, stripped to his jeans, stands
by a table washing sweat and grime from
face and arms.
A young girl drinks coffee
with his mother at the kitchen table nearby.
’Come wash my back ?
He grins,
tossing the girl a cloth.
She shyly takes it, glancing quickly
at the mother, who nods her head, smiling.
Dipping into the basin, the girl begins washing
the strong, bronzed back, feeling his heat.
smelling his skin.
Her young face reflects a purity of emotion,
the total loss of self, that painful joy,
the first rending of the heart.
(definitive final copy)
--Carole Thompson Carole Richard Thompson under the POET TREE at John C. Campbell Folk School.
3 comments:
There is wonderful imagery in this poem! I can just smell the young man's skin and see the bronze of his skin. Bravo, Carole!
I love Carole and am so pleased she was awarded second place for her lovely poem.
Congratulations, Carole. You deserve it.
Precious!!!!
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