Marys Duties

　　 by Lola Haskins

　　 He is rid away to the tenant farms

　　 and I take up my pen to list

　　 the shakings-out and openings.

　　 And my thin letters lean as sails

　　 that， though driven， cannot arrive.

　　 May the ninth， I write.

　　 And： Mrs. Ferguson.

　　 Unbutton the bed pillows

　　 and plump them to the air.

　　 Then： Take the curtains down

　　 and with your broom unseat

　　 the spiders' webs. Open

　　 the windows and leave them

　　 wide and here the thread trails

　　 off， among the cottages

　　 with their spring festoons of eggs

　　 pricked with pins and blown，

　　 fragile as the blacksmith's daughter

　　 dreaming in the sun， who lifts

　　 her skirts above her white knees.

　　 I pull back behind a hedge.

　　 Let her not meet me， with my dry pen