The White Porch

I wrap the blue towel after washing, around the damp weight of hair, bulky as a sleeping cat, and sit out on the porch. Still dripping water, it’ll be dry by supper, by the time the dust settles off your shoes, though it’s only five past noon. Think of the luxury: how to use the afternoon like the stretch of lawn spread before me. There’s the laundry, sun-warm clothes at twilight, and the mountain of beans in my lap. Each one, I’ll break and snap thoughtfully in half. But there is this slow arousal. The small buttons of my cotton blouse are pulling away from my body. I feel the strain of threads, the swollen magnolias heavy as a flock of birds in the tree. Already, the orange sponge cake is rising in the oven. I know you’ll say it makes your mouth dry and I’ll watch you drench your slice of it in canned peaches and lick the plate clean. So much hair, my mother used to say, grabbing the thick braided rope in her hands while we washed the breakfast dishes, discussing dresses and pastries. My mind often elsewhere as we did the morning chores together. Sometimes, a few strands would catch in her gold ring. I worked hard then, anticipating the hour when I would let the rope down at night, strips of sheets, knotted and tied, while she slept in tight blankets. My hair, freshly washed like a measure of wealth, like a bridal veil. Crouching in the grass, you would wait for the signal, for the movement of curtains before releasing yourself from the shadow of moths. Cloth, hair and hands, smuggling you in.