BY SHARON MARTIN

The wind blowing under the house

lifted the linoleum –

fun house walk in spring,

cold as hell in winter.

Dad’s parishioners had no cash for tithes.

We drank raw milk,

made cheese and butter,

canned peaches and green beans,

ate like children of God,

wore handmade clothes

that we hung out on a clothesline.

No Easter dresses,

no prom,

but somehow Mom found money for music,

Dad dug down for books.

Might have qualified for welfare

if we hadn’t committed the sin of pride.

Poor, but privileged.

No one ever questioned our promise,

our right to grow up

to be anything.

– Sharon Martin lives in Oilton, OK and is a regular contributor to The Oklahoma Observer. This first appeared last year in Malpais Review, the New Mexico-based poetry anthology.