We would caterwaul to high heaven

when the rains halted,

as my mother would say.   

 

We knew that my mother would be tending to the laundry.

Saturday chores.  From hamper to wringer

washing machine.  To the clothesline

with pillowcases and sheets and tablecloths

and daddy’s boxers and my trainer bras

all suspended with clothespins. Our clean laundry

on display for the whole neighborhood to see.

The women would gather at the fence, where the four yards

converged.  There would be gossip in between

slurps of Maxwell House. 

 

We stole clothespins from my mother’s cotton bag,

affixed Bicycle playing cards

to the spokes of our two-wheelers.

Mine was a purple Schwinn, with a pink

padded seat.  Camelia’s was a Huffy

banana seat bike, with silver and gold

variegated tassels suspended from the handles.

Her seat was plush velveteen yellow,

with extra padding.  Even the pedals

sported neon lights which glowed.

If I gave her a dime, she let me ride

her shiny vehicle around the cul-de-sac.  Just once.

If I gave her a quarter, she let me ride no-handed,

pretending I was Evil Knievel navigating a field

of oak barrels and discarded junkers. 

 

But the best of times were right after a heavy rain,

when the storm sewers just couldn’t handle the deluge.

The whole subdivision flooded, murky waters

oozing up over curbs, over sidewalks, over

my father’s manicured corner lot of sod, right up

to the Sugar Maple next to the front door.  A neighborhood

of frantic parents admonished us, warning us not to go near

the tainted water. You’ll catch encephalitis, Frankie’s father shouted.

You’ll contract typhoid fever, Patricia’s mom, still in her petunia

patterned apron, yelled. You’re sure to get salmonellosis,

howled Old Man Rzemplinski.

 

But our rambunctious desire was muscular, more tumultuous

than any of their warnings.  We plunged our bikes and our bodies

into this suburban tsunami.  Drenched in all manner of

slime and sludge, we peddled with a frenetic passion,

the click-clack of the playing cards creating an underwater rhythm

that propelled us over curbs, onto the easement of crabgrass,

making circle eights on the groomed sod.

Nothing could deter us,

save the moment the streetlights came on. 

And on those nights, we all received a thorough scrubbing,

our parents determined to eliminate the chance

of our pubescent bodies succumbing to unpronounceable diseases. 

We were scoured in tubs of chlorine – a kill-all for any rabid germs

under our nails, in our orifices, between our muddied toes.

 

We were tucked in, covers up to our chins, reminded to

Sleep tight. Don’t let the bedbugs bite,

our bodies spanking, sparkling clean. 

 

Photo by Vitolda Klein on Unsplash

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After having taught middle and high school English for 32 years, Marianne is now nurturing her own creative spirit.  She has spent three summers in Guizhou Province, teaching best practices to teachers in China. She received Fulbright-Hays Awards to Nepal (2003) and Turkey (2009). Marianne participated in Marge Piercy’s Juried Intensive Poetry Workshop (2016).  Marianne’s poetry appears in Muddy River Poetry Review, Belle Reve Literary Journal, Jelly Bucket Journal, Gyroscope Review, among others. Marianne was a finalist for the Naugatuck River Review Narrative Poetry Contest (2020), and she was longlisted for the Alpine Fellowship Writing Prize (2021). Further, she received 3rd Place Poetry Award in Comstock Review’s Muriel Craft Bailey Memorial Contest.  In addition, her chapbook was a finalist in Comstock Review’s Jesse Brice Niles Chapbook Contest.   She has a collection of poetry, No Distance Between Us, published in 2021 by Shadelandhouse Modern Press.