Coming of Age

Out of the rain, four girls slump
against a Fairlane’s vinyl seats.

Each almost old enough
to make it legal, they list

a husband’s unacceptable qualities:
hairy ears; holey undershirts;
beer cans brought to the supper table;

cussing at nothing or, worse,

admiring the sermon every possible Sunday.
Of course they describe their fathers.



Except for the one with her feet on
the dash who would rather wonder
about her mother’s secrets,

her mother who says if you have to ask,
you’re not old enough to know.

If you take your secrets

to the grave, they are raised

with you, incorruptible.

If you confess, you live

to regret it.



The girl’s secret is that she has memorized
the book of Ruth, word for word,
that she can pronounce the strange names

and point to the places on her map
of the ancient world,

that a husband is not nearly so exciting

as a mother-in-law,

that each night after she prays 
as she’s been taught, she chants

the name, Naomi, Naomi, Naomi.