I wouldn’t have asked, he said.
Sisters in shawls come from the next farm,
the younger, dear to his Molly.
He says, She’ll be comforted, both of us are.
It’s snowing again,
the ground not yet frozen.
Her arm around Molly, the older looking on.
The cloths, the herb water. Wrenched-open mouth,
what slipped from between his legs.
Maybe five when Molly last bathed him,
nudging his hand round his sex.
Callused now from shovels and sweeps,
the iron grabs.
The three work quickly, the room chill.
Stiffness in her limbs setting in, the older one rubs
the young head, her hands strong, the jaw
relaxes to look like himself.
Bones like his father’s.
What had kept her going fades,
Molly, when asked, says,
Any words. His father can say. She sees
in that instant a painting from scripture
and adds, Any words with a lamb…
by trick of imagination, the shepherd and her boy
in the grain bin…one above the other,
suffocated.
Stillness as far as the barn.
The older sister asks, Shall I call?
Just outside’s his father— he’s a big boy-man
for us lifting, we’ll need help with the trousers.
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