Thursday, June 5, 2008

Laundry

Laundry piles,
whites ready to sparkle; coloreds
separated and proud to stand apart.
Towels off in their own mound,
competition in their own rights.

Laundress approaches with resistance.
Towels look daunting. More than
one load, for sure. Whites, dotted
with spots need special care. She runs
the water hot.

Reaches for the bleach, notices a coin
from a pocket. 1972. Her birth year.
The war had just ended, her uncle
back with PTSD. Her mother had
done his laundry with care, scrubbed
all the stains. In the end, it really
did not matter. They say a car
hit him by accident, but even a
young child can read between the lines.

Back to the coloreds, holding their own.
Conferences for the stripes. Meetings
for the polka dots. What to do with the
Guatemalan overalls which are sure to
bleed. Fingers the coin and sets it in
a little blue jar on the laundry shelf.
This may be the reward of the day.

2 comments:

MorMor said...

This poem moved me to consider some of the deep themes in it.
--MorMor

Haiku
Hot and oppressive
War spreads its horrible stain.
Bleach won't remove it.

Postville Raid
Icy* rain and cold hearts
arrest immigrant workers
Guatemalans bleed

*I.C.E. = Immigration and Customs Enforcement

MorMor said...

Whoops! The first line of "Postville Raid" should read:

Icy* rain, cold hearts

--MorMor