The wind howled down from the black peaksShould we thank God only for the good things
He sends and not the bad.
Job 2:10 (paraphrased)
rattling the latch like a poltergeist;
slashing the kitchen window
with a crab apple sprig.
The hooter tooted, the lift cage
on its way, Evan would soon be here.
She had washed his children,
dried them by the fire, dressed in flannel;
put to bed with copper hot-water
bottles wrapped in lamb’s wool.
She died last year, Rachel who took ill.
The yearly toll the pastor said: an act of God.
Easy for him to say, as if he had direct access
to the throne.
How long, she'd seen him touch,
his caress that made her sister purr;
the pretty one.
She hold told him, 'It's for the childen see Evan,
I promised.' She washed his back in the zinc bath,
washing away the coal dust that clung
to every follicle. She hid her needs
to serve his, her only moment of intimacy,
he hid his manhood.
Like a gust from the peaks that drenched
he came to her as she 's hoped he would,
‘Evan, I’ll be back in the morning then.’
'You don’t have to go.'
She searched his eyes, the shroud
of indifference gone, he was alive again.
She cried that night, in Rachel’s bed,
reached out to touch and feel
him stir, just to be sure.
