They came in threes to Idlewild:

each woman with her basket and a child

at play behind her homespun skirt. They came

with needle marks and swollen fingers,

 

eyes fixed on their toes, their wistful sighs

for morning sun to dry the sallow straw

so they could twist and sew it,

stitching out their days in perfect circles.

The rainbow gone, they edged away in silence, shuffling coins

and counting infants, fearing naked lust of men,

who whispered promises in the leaves,

but brought them savage night instead,

their panting snuffing dreams that flickered

in the kerosene light, and left them—

the drizzle in their eyes to mourn

the hidden injuries of love’s sweet thorn.

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