Rumors

We heard there was something going on

down in the valley, but it meant nothing to us.

There was always something going on

down in one of the valleys and rumors sifted up

like bones in a funeral mound. On that particular day

I remember our robes seemed brighter

and several women were seen out washing their hair—

lining up by the cistern, drawing cups of rainwater

in the rain. Our food arrived by the usual

village boy; his left arm was withered and for this

his mother considered him holy and dedicated

him to us twice daily with sweet rice and a little bit

of whatever the fields were yielding. Early

through the mizzen shrouds of morning an elder came,

concerned a new dish introduced at the café

would corrupt the minds of the young,

something made of egg and small bits of meat

the owner invented from a story told by a man

with a beard and a mule pack strapped to his back.

We prayed.