Freak show, a classmate said. Watch them parade
down Main on July 24, singing Come,
Come Ye Saints, horse and wagon,
aproned women,
babies in gingham.
Toddlers in sunbonnets
on their fathers’ shoulders,
men in cotton blouses with tin cups lashed to belts.
A freak show, she said, after a short
Utah residence. I told her
I’d marched in that parade,
sang loud All is well, All
is well, or sat curbside
on Logan’s Center and 3rd
by the picturesque mansions
a polygamist built,
one for each of his three
families, ordinary
backdrop of my life, familiar as summer
sweat. I’d wave and clap
as the bishop rode by
with his pair of Clydesdales,
hooves heavy clomping. He’d toss
a fistful of saltwater
taffy at my feet. I’d scramble
to gather each piece,
wrapped in a twist
of wax paper, as if
it were my right, my inheritance to grab
what I could from hot asphalt,
a pinch of scorch.
