The house stinks 

like a zoo in summer, 

while upstairs her man sleeps on. 

Robe slung over

her arm and the 

cradled hymnal. 

- Rita Dove

The house stinks

like a zoo in summer, 

while upstairs her man sleeps on. 

Robe slung over

her arm and 

the cradled hymnal. 

Looking to the window,

She waits. 

She waits for 

the missionary of hope to

come knocking at her door

with a novel on how to fix

the burdens of her life. 

But she’s been waiting.  

She’s been waiting since

the pawned ring was 

slipped onto her dirt covered

finger. 

She’s waited through the nights

Where she grasped the knife

in her hand as her man 

walked through the door 

in a hostile rage.

Her fingers slipped through

The pages of the  hymnal.  

Looking  for something. 

An answer, a sign, a hope. 

And when her eyes lifted

to the window, she saw

A white dove land

on the broken clothesline.

It sang to her.