glass of the shut window, trying to soak the cleanness,
of the clear raindrops splashing out the mud away so
the filth, the grime, to make everything as new again
and fresh, like nothing ever happened, like summer toe
meadow, just sprinkled in light shadows that flew away
from the sunshine of marbled shining clouds flow.
Why had Momma asked for the new clothes, when dark
brown bottles on the table crowded way the empty plates?
When he could not scrub the coal from his knuckles, stark
elbows, when it grimed his frown like an eyebrow and gritted
his frustrated roar and caught him swinging to land his mark
on the cold tiles of the kitchen floor. Then he had swung
to grasp her golden hair,"the source of all wantings, bark!"
"I will teach you daughter, what you must want to make
a proper home." He flung her on the bed and rip her blouse,
but the feelings beneath her skirt were the worst, grit shake,
soaked, ragged nails, and inside her he rubbed the dirt from
the work of days. He belched and rolled off her, stagger takes
to the door and rumble "Ah sorry," shakes his head and leaves.
The "sorry" had too many times leakened her, emptied her lake.
The rain was so cleansing, but she had nowhere to go ,
the saloon had said she was too young and she needed
schooling to working at clerking or some such job. No,
she needed friends to stay with, she had none that did not
fear her dad, she must live like an Indian, and eat raw, know
snakes and grub for roots and beetles but she knew not how.
The rain against the window pressed harder, streamed loud.
Streams like blood and gave off fine mist from the glass,
the cleanest cleaning of them all, nature's finality that
washed even the boulders in the canyons, the chimney last
in the Spring, the autumn mud from the stream beds.
She took the carving knife from the counter and went, passed, yes, passed the snoring room. Held high, she plunged three times in his center,
then sat and listened to the whistle cry gasp.
The jury of stiff hats and summer bonnets held high looked
down upon her in her gray shift and dull blondish hair and
shook their heads that a father treated his daughter, spooked.
The mother was with the doctor, making little cries, and sighs,
and pulling here and fro, for she was touched, would be shooked
to the city, soon enough, she made no sense. But daughter would not tell, held her head much higher for clean raindrops.
� 2000 DPMcClellan
