Father Trey Makes an Offer

At the friary lunch Father Trey asks,

"Do you have laundry?"

Lean, young Kevin Costner.

We three women poets nod.

"I'd be happy to do your wash," he says.

"Leave it on the porch."

When he leaves we gasp,

"Oh my God!"

Margie whispers red panties.

Jill has been lounging in pink

polka-dotted birthday jammies. 

No, no, no, Father Trey.

You will not be handling my

black Barely There bra.

You will not fold my blue

silk bikini bottoms.

You stride like Bull Durham,

Father, and looks

rarely deceive. 

What penance makes you seek

soiled underthings?

If you insist,

we could go down

to the nunnery basement

with its old vibrating

wash and spin,

gas-fired pilot lights,

huge hot dryers,

lie on the sturdy table for folding

holy briefs

on top of immaculate towels

bathe each other with caresses

beneath the hanging jello mold

of our Mother of Consolation.

We'd weep mutual tears of absolution

below the "Cup of Joy" blessing card,

and--you know what's coming--

cleanse each other deeply

with Judeo-Christian tongues.