Grassy Branch Pentecostal Church, dish towels

that he scalds in the speckled canner,
drives to the coin laundry for the dryers
(even the threadbare can be soft again).

That she irons, pats, folds with lavender.

That they carry into church before the people arrive
and stack on the front bench—for footwashings,
for draping on the bare skin of the spirit-slain,
hairy ankles, varicose calves.

That she lifts from the floor
(scattered heaps after the people leave)
and lowers into the basket he holds.

That ride in the truck cab, heaped up,
overflowing, between them, like a child.