Sunday morning before church; in the blackberry patch. Boys plucking berries, lips smack red; giddy kisses in the thorns, snakes gliding past their shoes.
Sunday morning before church; from behind a pine, the Devil files his nails.
Sunday morning before church; out pop lizards, green anole, red bib bobbing in robotic threat; mockingbird robs songs from twenty different birds, sings them out full throated; bees buzz, doze on blossoms in a hazy daze; no hurry, all is on time.
Some boys don seersucker, others dotted swiss, now stained purple with berry juice; boys lift their skirts over barbed wire fence. Church bells call out, fading to silence; boys answer hawks’ cries instead.
Boys sky-rise, wheel in circles over the pasture, seeking prey, small creatures tremble and silent, tucked away in clumps of green grass; boys’ arms outstretched, breeze-soaring without movement of wings.
Rabbits hop into noon light; boy hawks nose dive, dig claws into soft fur; wheel up and over, twirl in the blue sky like stunt planes.
Sunday morning, during church; creek bed trickles along, minnows flash below, crawfish ricochet in the silt-shadows, the boys fly, then skim over the water. Tumble into grass, grass stains on white suits. Cradle red sliders gently, then release. Only bird songs, crickets.
No preacher bellows, no one shakes a finger.
At the stable, brush the horse, bridle off; horse grazes without concern, glossy sweat shining. Horse nickers with patted pleasure. Boys rest on hot sand; sand in pink hair, naked shoulders sun-licked, boys rolling in sand. Smell of fresh cow patties. Healthy earth bed, all is well.
In the darkness; orchestra of peepers’ tinkling bells; boys’ heads fall back, eyes close, allow Moon-baptism, Moon names boys: Purity. Virtue. Merit. Sons of Sun and Moon, boys lack nothing. Sing the song of their newly spun selves.
In the darkness; all is surrender. Fireflies light up boys’ eyes, light the path. Pink boys dance like leaves whistling from trees, spiraling, bare feet chasing. Counting stars, naming constellations. No judgement of sky-scape. All is perfection.
Boys sleep in clumps of clover. Jerk-twitch and call out; Earth Empress watches over them, drops perfumed flowers in their hair. Cools their hot skin. Boys with pink hair, lavender lashes, orange nails, green eye shadow sleep with violets, pink roses.
In the darkness; Devil sets traps, poison-baits foxes, rabbits and pink boys. Waits.
Author’s note: This poem was written with the images of growing up in Baptist North Louisiana. Sometimes before church, I would pick berries in the blackberry patch. I got in trouble for getting berry stains on my Sunday clothes. It’s also about turning the patriarchy on its head, using sensitive boys as protagonists who love nature and care for it rather than destroying it. I grieve the loss of innocence in our society and wrote this partly as an antidote. Eco feminism is the lens through which I see it.
Kim Salinas Silva lives in North Providence, RI with her musician husband and their Mississippi-rescue dog, Zelda. She loves nature and all animals. Kim’s work has been or is forthcoming in Gone Lawn, Barbar Publishing, Poor Yorick, Mono Literary Journal, Unbroken, South Florida Poetry Journal and others. Pushcart nominee. BA in Writing and Painting from Vermont College in Montpelier, Vermont. MFA in Painting from Savannah College of Art and Design, Savannah, Georgia.
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Artwork copyright © 2023, Kim Salinas Silva.
The Disappointed Housewife 