WASHING THE DARLINGS

Mornings he wasn't crocked on Ripple,
old man Darling, toothless and fourteen times
as mean as my old man,
hauled navy beans from trucks
to freighter docks, his back bent bearing
hundred-pound bean sacks,
sad radio songs of runaway wives, and the brunt
of being left with seven children, six boys
and a single girl.

They filled their pants and sat;
they picked their noses.
Wild cootie bugs jumped in their undies,
those Darling boys.
They were out of control;
at the center of every grade school storm
at South Park School, you'd find
at least one Darling
slugging it out in those famous
flagpole fights unfurling
under the Wolverine State banner,
under the red white and blue,
their chubby fists pounding,
their raggedy dirt-caked nails
slicing little red half-moon marks
in tormentors' flesh.

No sin to be poor, my aunt June said,
in the old days we all were poor,
but we were clean. How much could it cost
for the old man to keep his kids clean?
Uncle Ty, volunteer fireman, said
he'd like to hose them Darlings down,
just take and pressure blast 'em all,
but what about the girl, I said, Diana,
I want her.

Diana, the first time I saw you,
hunched into that corner
of Mrs. Maxwell's class,
scratching the bites on your stubby arms,
picking at lace on your stained anklets,
I wanted to kidnap you, carry you home,
to soak and soak in our steamy clawfoot tub
till the filth surrendered
to gardenia bubbles, lather its layers
off with the softest sponge;

then tilt your head back
and welcome you in
to the Emerald city of Prell,
a shampoo so luxurious
pearls swam in its woman-shaped bottles
on t.v.

Later we'd coax your hair
from its mousy bowlcut,
finger wave spitcurls,
paint your nails Peony Frost.
Later we'd dip our pinkies
into Aunt June's stash
of Evening in Paris,
scent your white wrists, your white nape,
your fresh sun-dried bloomers,
get you spiffed.

But first we'd have to wrap you
head to toe in soft white terrycloth,
scour off the final ring of insult
from the porcelain, and rinse
and rinse
and rinse
till the water came sparkling.

VANDAL

What have you got,
asks the stranger in town,
the Dangerous Man in denim

and leather, rubbing his bony
hip against your locker.
His work here

is already done,
you understand: you are
already torn to soft rags

and tied, red blurs
on the spokes of his wheels.
That red mud on your chin

came off of his bootsoles;
those red strands of hair
between his teeth

are yours.
See how he cocks his neck,
how certain he is

that you will be demolished,
blue ribbon yanked
from your ponytail,

white oxford button-down ripped
against the seam.
Hooks from the stiff

white bra on the floor
of the janitor's closet,
pleated plaid skirt and white slip pushed up;

but he's already way down
the road from here;
he's already been gone years.

SENIOR PICTURE, 1971

I take it all back,
each dirty, lowdown thing I ever said
and felt and thought about you, honey,
and all I put you through.

I take back your Clearasil zits and Midol cramps,
take back those cheap 4-inch gold plated hoops
that infected your earlobes
and snagged your silk shirts;
I take it all back to the K-Mart for you,
stand in the returns line
with armfuls of too-tight bras, blue eyeshadows,
Uncurl and water weight pills.

I take back the menthol stink of those nasty
fags you smoked, breathe in the foul clouds
you blew out your bedroom window;
take out the butts you double-wrapped
in kleenex, sprayed with Glade,
snuck out to the backyard trash can;

take back the pink frosted lipstick
and jasmine cologne you stole from Hudsons
take back the drive-in nights
you puked popcorn and apple wine
out the windows of fast-moving cars,
take back your dancing wild at the Bowl-O-Drome;

your animal, rabid fear of touching
and being touched; your fear of boylust burning
bright as a thousand votives
in St. Joseph's vestibule;
fear of the Lone Airborne Sperm,
fear of the Lord's cool hand
set down hard upon your backside,
fear of His crown of thorns
set down hard upon your hairdo;
take back your venial sins chalked up in fives
on your blank slate soul.

I take back your fear of fat, stronger
than your fear of God, the fear
that kept saying no thank you,
none for me, please; that whittled you down and down
with your chocolate milk lunches
from 116 to 106 to 96 pounds
that Easter you went to Florida;

and even with studio-tinted cheeks
and hair the photographer made too red,
naturally wavy hair set straight
on juice cans and Depot-Doo the night before;
and even in spite of that goofy far-off someday look
the picture pulled out of your face
from God knows where,

I can see it so crystal
clearly now, decades too late,
see your momma was all along right
about you:
you were one sweet bird,
one inside/outside beautiful
special girl.

Pamela Gemin was featured in BMR #3. The poems
in this issue will appear in her first collection of poetry,
*Confirmation Day*, which recently won the Minnesota
Voices Project Award. The book will appear next year
from New Rivers Press. With Paula Sergi, she has also
co-edited an anthology, *Boomer Girls: American
Women Poets Come of Age*, which is forthcoming
from University of Iowa Press. She lives in Oshkosh,
Wisconsin, and teaches at the University of Wisconsin
at Oshkosh.