Jenny's Prayer

I burned a candle today
and as the room filled
with a soapy smell, clean
I remembered you. Your
smooth chocolate chocolate
chip milkshake skin, ribbon
candy nails and neatly pressed
dresses with pockets bigger
than my chest.

Hot soapy washcloths
at your bathroom sink.
You showed me, told me
wash behind your ears,
clean before dinner.

      Now I lay me down to sleep

At your table I sat, small
before an empty plate, yellow plastic cup.
Watching you through the door
careful and exact in the kitchen,
brown beans and rice
sliced long fried bananas
in the pan. The back of your
dress swayed like love as you went from
counter to stove, stove to counter,
in between wiping your hands on
a dish towel tucked to your waist.

      I give the lord my soul to keep

Your couch was wrapped in plastic.
I wanted to take it off, feel the fabric
underneath, it looked like gold, but you
reminded me how we take care of things.
How we take off our shoes at the door
and fold the washcloths drape them over
the side of the sink. But it was cold on the back
of my legs, and I never lost the facination
of wanting to feel the fabric on
my skin or following zipper tracks to
see where it where began.

      If I should die before I wake

Clean before bed, warm soap, brush
your teeth. You taught me to kneel
in front of the bed, fold my hands and close
my eyes. Learn words I didn't understand.
Then tucked me in and said goodnight.

      I give the lord my soul to take

I was safe as your temporary
child with this permanent skin
of mine. I was clean vanilla. You
were indifferent.

Michelle M. Buchanan Nov 27, 2005