And the washing still out drying - by
the day got up with a hang-over
/ birds played hide and seek
/ with a boy’s flung stones…
the day got up with a hang-over
/ birds played hide and seek
/ with a boy’s flung stones…
All this last week I have been thinking
of my mother, thinking of her taking
up in her arms the creaking basket
of clothes, without pausing, up to the attic.
his mother pulls the linen
/ from the cord.
/ She flaps each sheet,
/ folds each vest.
/ Collars are starched,
/ skirts are dressed.
/ She is spit, she is…
Washboards and mangles are on my father’s mind.
/ In conversation he will return to the soaked linen
/ of his childhood –…
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