“Did She Ever Have a Boyfriend?”

What’s the closest she ever came to love
beyond the tyrannical mother who set
the agenda?  What if, what if—the sheer
temerity of loving somebody not kin,
somebody who came from beyond
that dirt road, the long line of trees,
the squalling birds, the opaque screen porch?
She was sick, yes. Unfeeling, no. Invalid?
Invalidated? Oh yes, that too, early on,
after years in the frigid Midwest,
a tantalizing taste of northern life,
the cold New York apartment,
a few stories in print. Wise Blood
nearly done. Lonely? Likely.
Prayerful, deeply. Mass? Daily.
Dedicated to correspondence, to wry
jokes about Regina and the antebellum
ambience with its solemn commitment
to the outrageous, to social amenities,
to crosses scorching front lawns.
Bloom where you are planted, or some
such nonsense, urged pious, well-meaning friends.
I’d say to hell with that, she might have replied.
Now when we read her letters, we’re ashamed,
even chastened, by our questions, our silly efforts
to make her like us, like one of us.