No, it's simple, you mustn't worry.
She won't mind, you'll see when we get there,
it will be all right. She's never in a hurry.
It's the last working cistern anywhere
in the neighborhood, really the only one
I've ever seen. She's washed her hair
in rainwater and dried it in the sun
for fifty years now. Her hair's still brown
except for a silver streak. She keeps it done
in braids, but when I'm headed for town
sometimes I stop to see if she needs
anything, and I'll find her, settled down
in a patch of light coming through the trees
surrounding the house, washing her hair
with a galvanized bucket at her knees,
and a gourd dipper. It's pleasant there,
and sometimes I'll fetch another pail
and wash my hair, too, and she'll share
shampoo, and pour the rinse, and I'll flail
about till she hands me an extra towel.
We laugh a lot. Her skin is soft and pale
like the water, she says, all vowels
and no consonants. Once I stayed there
all afternoon - picking wildflowers,
waiting till the wind had dried our hair.
We looked in the cistern, too, and saw our faces.
I'll go call her now. I know she won't care.
First published in Cincinnati Poetry Review.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem