May B. by Caroline Rose Page A

quilt
          to the only dry spot.
          She lies under the table
          with her boots on.
          I take the linens
          and hang them on the line.
          Ma’s got
          her quilts drying.
          Hiram’s out
          to milk the cow.
          Pa’s turning soil,
          grateful for the rainfall.
          I’m miles away.

33

          Thank goodness Mr. Oblinger
          built this house on a slope.
          There is no water at the door.
          With it open,
          a bit of air
          might help to dry the muddy floor
          before night comes.
          
          I sleep in the rocker,
          the driest spot
          besides the makeshift bed,
          where Mrs. Oblinger rests.
          
          The coffee’s on;
          still she doesn’t stir.
          The creek runs smoothly now.
          He should be home soon.

34

          I hear the wagon
          and head outside.
          It’s best if Mr. Oblinger sees me first.
          He swings down from the seat.
          “How’d you fare?”
          “The missus is tired,” I say,
          unsure of how to explain
          why she’s not yet left her place
          under the table.

35

          She’s up now,
          sitting at the table.
          He’s given her the coffee,
          thick from waiting on the stove.
          She holds a letter,
          stares at it for a time,
          folds it,
          stands,
          pushes past the doorway
          into sun and open prairie.

36

          Was it real,
          that talk we had
          the rainy day Mr. Oblinger was in town?
          She rarely speaks,
          and if she does it’s to criticize.
          Does she think I like it here?
          She’s not the only one
          missing family,
          wishing for familiar voices.
          She chose this place.
          Can’t Mr. Oblinger see
          the slow pulling away,
          the distance
          growing
          in this tiny space?
          When she sits around back,
          I imagine she’s counting the miles
          between here and home.

37

          Mr. Oblinger and Mr. Chapman
          split logs,
          lay planks.
          I bring out the pail and dipper
          and offer them a drink.
          Mr. Chapman nods his thanks.
          His beard’s fuller than Mr. Oblinger’s,
          but his clothes nonetheless look like town.
          Seems like all the folks west of home are new.
          Even so,
          Pa would approve of their labors.
          “Many hands make light work,” he’d say.
          They labor until the furniture is restored to its rightful place.
          There is only the entryway to complete.
          The men shake hands.
          “Much obliged,” Mr. Oblinger says.
          Mr. Chapman shrugs.
          “It’s what neighbors do.
          I’d appreciate if you could check in on my place
          once or twice.
          I’m going east for a visit,
          may not be back before the first snow.”

38

          A fine breeze stirs,
          the sunflowers nod,
          the day she chooses to go riding.
          Usually she stays close,
          like a tethered calf.
          “Pack some biscuits, will you, May?
          I want to see all that I can.
          The prairie’s so beautiful today.”
          She’s never spoken that way before.
          “Tell my husband I’ll be a while.
          Don’t count on me for dinner.”
          When Mr. Oblinger hears,
          he smiles.
          “It’s good to see her happy.
          Maybe I’ll be