Laundry
by Mary Ann Meade



Morning, memory to wash out,
the town creek covered with lint
from a thousand washings.

Would that the lint would bloom,
the color never to wash out,
the house still but for the folding

of linen in the back room.
Till night, in a dream, the hum
of the washing machine.

Like a bee in late winter,
the machine hums till it wails.
For is not a thousand washings,

a thousand drownings.
the hands still in the back room
the creek rising, rising...





Illya's Honey Literary Journal

Copyright by Dallas Poets Community. First Rights Reserved. All other rights revert to the authors.