Nothing but Laundry
Poem by Michele Lesko •
Photo by Carolyn Adams
“Oh, let there be nothing on earth
but
laundry Nothing but rosy hands in
the rising steamAnd clear dances done in the sight of heaven.” Richard
Wilbur
The ruddy hands are hers, reaching out to pull taut the corded rope cut to fit the oak’s girth. Her skirts tangle with his slacks, rising and waving on a chill wind. Her hip bones pressed against their windowsill, she hangs hard-wrung laundry on the line, her mind moves and stays in place like a leaf eddying: her silent prayers a dark habit. Turning in to meet her husband’s hands gently pulling her to kneel before him on clean sheets, she considers this one more job to cross off today's list, and just as quickly kneels again to run a worn rag across the pine floor, reaching into corners to polish even the plank that broke. Skipping vespers she steps out onto the brittle lawn and rests a chair beneath the tree. Her sleight spirit hangs a moment above the body that will not wave back at the laundry, ready to be taken in. |