The man with the white beard remembers
the body, ripping flatbread

she baked yesterday. The boy wriggles on his chair, leans
into her soft side. Breathes

hot-pressed cotton,
lye soap, salve. His feet dangle

heavy in shoes he only wears on Sundays.
I’m thirsty.

Later. Now hush.

Barn swallows spin through the dim, then out
to the heavy sheen of green cornfields stretching

from everlasting to the Missouri, hemmed
in a hundred singing kingdoms

of fencerow woolly peaches and wild plum
trees thick with blackbirds, goldfinches, wrens.

In heaven, can I get a drink?

No. Quiet.

Mothers and fathers, deacons and farmers, hobbling
to their knees. Folded elbows, buckled fists.

What if I get thirsty?

You won’t.

They’re mumbling merciful, moaning,
softly as hens in the night-dark barn.

A sweet suck on the sharp awn
of unslaked thirst. The shuddering

heart of the primed pump
before icy water splashes out.

He grips her arms, cranes his face to look
into her sealed eyes, pinched lips.

But I will. I will.

 

 

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Jenny Hykes Jiang’s work has appeared in Five Points, Stonecoast Review, Arts & Letters, and The Believer. An MDiv student at Kairos University, she heads an English language class for Afghan women in the Sacramento area.

 

 

 

Photo by Gabriella Clare Marino on Unsplash