An old woman lived across
the street in a house so small
and square it might have been
a handkerchief, neatly folded,
in the pocket of its own front
porch. She was skinny as a switch,
hump-backed and liver-spotted,
the veins in her hands fat
as earthworms. She wore floral
patterned dresses with buttons
round and white as moons,
high-topped shoes triple-tied
with extra-long laces, and she
was no fool. On the kitchen
counter, she stacked her tins
of butter mints, homemade,
in baby blanket colors—pale
pinks, lemon yellows, sea-foam
greens. They drew us in like
beacons, eager to mop, dust
or sweep, in exchange for which
she doled them out, one at a time,
like solid gold doubloons.
From Telling Tales of Dusk (Press 53, 2009).
Used here with the author’s permission.
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