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

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