The Rev. J.W.Burton's Wife

Her memories were deceptive
like the bands
of gypsies my grandmother
spoke about.
And there were times,
she told us,
that the tramps
came hat-in-hand to tap
her kitchen door.
There were more, she was sure,
because of markings.

To the back they came,
and I know she feared their hunger.
She would stand
inside the hooked screen door,
would not go out,
nor would she let them in,
afraid of men.

Damage
was the word that she thought of,
of what men do
to beautiful women
with their hands.
She was a beauty, then,
with hair piled up on her head.
"O Annie," she recalled young men saying,
"O Annie, Annie."