Sonnets for Sarah’s Daughters


Slivers of Soap

Wet palms
coax perfumed lather
from their alligatored sides
and I wash my face
from the bones
of bath bars
others would discard.

Friends smile.
Grown children assign
a motive
to my penchant
for using things up–
the penuries of my youth.

But they miss the point.

When life
has worn me thin
and brittle as this soap,
may someone
need me still
until

I break in the hand
or dissolve
in a fragrant act
of comfort
or delight.

               Yvonne Postelle
(from the book, Sonnets for Sarah’s Daughters)