Saturday (Southern Illinois)
J.T. Ledbetter
When it finally stopped raining my mother
hung out the laundry and commenced to beat
the rug while we watched from the kitchen,
convinced she was crazy and would beat us
when she was done with the rug. The old dog
behind the stove died in the night but no
one noticed until the unchewed bones piled up.
That night, as we ate in silence, our fingers
gripping the bowls we slurped milk out of,
my father turned on the radio to hear
Gabriel Heater tell us how things were
and they must have been bad because he got up
and threw his chair against the wall, took
down his shotgun and banged through the
screen door and called the dog, who did
not move. My mother wrapped and unwrapped
her hands in her apron and watched him go,
his boots sticking in the mud, his curses
carrying over the dark barns and dead fields,
while we dug into the biscuits and gravy,
praying for Sunday.
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