In Praise of No Running Water

by

Bren Gentry

When I asked Granny
why I was always the last
one into the metal tub
on the porch,
she'd say child, didn't you hear
the preacher today?

Baptismal's to heaven
are full of water, heated long ago
in kettles on pot bellied stoves
by a long line of women.
It's the last one to turn purple
who skims wisdom from stagnant water.
But the only thing I could remember
was falling asleep on Daddy's lap
in pew five and channeling the dreads
from Ivory soap boats with Epsom Salt
specks swirling on top of spring fed water.

 

 

 

Bren Gentry lives on a farm in Missouri and has one husband, two daughters, six dogs and one cat as her inspiration. She’s been published in Amaze: The Cinquain Journal, Tryst, Niederngasse, The Woman of the Web Anthology and Burning Effigy.

 

 

 

 

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