Black Soap

1 White lather on black soap— Maria’s gift. It reminds me Of when a woman died And they handed me her ring. Then they left to divide the roots for her. Daylight went down there shining. By accident, cleaning the hearth Of a house to leave it for good, I learned how to see A star come out: work My hand into the ashes. 2 “You’ve thrown a chestnut hull into the fireplace again,” Said Colette’s mother, “My clean ashes!” Naughty Colette had soiled the washing ashes Of applewood, poplar, and elm. Stretched over the big cauldron In the washhouse, hemp cloth held the ashes The washwoman poured a jug of boiling water on. They smelled almost sweet as the lye Filtered into the mass of linen. The air darkened with blue clouds. In the smoking lava layer of ashes, A few cinders of chestnut hulls, The tannin’s yellow stain. 3 Look for something You’ve been every day of your life. You said it was “lonely.” I’m certain it is also “clean.” My body’s big years diminish soap. My grandmother, whose diamond it was, Had a stone in her tub. I rubbed it on my feet As later I walked, Building little hoofs, All summer shoeless on creek gravel. That black bar of stone In the widow’s clean house, That volcanic pumice skips Over most hard places But softens at least one. 4 Once there was a downpour of rain They took as a judgment. It confused her billowing, steaming skirts. Another time—those times were hard— The executioner let go the twisted hemp From her neck sooner than he should Because the flames reached his hands. Nor would I, if I’d had to live then, Put my hands into the fire Those three hours it took to reduce her. But after, I’d scrub all over With the ashes of the still warm Black heart of the witch.