Hot water dripping from
Leaky electric boilers,
Cooled with splashes
From aquifers beneath
Spry weeds and cattle steps,
Culled cautiously and stored
In Soviet plasticware.
Powdered soap bubbles
Like a witch’s cauldron
Transforming gold
Into lead as if reverse
Alchemy was the dream
Contained in the
Plastic tub.
Wringing heavy, sopping
Cloth and fabric,
The grip of my thumb
Stinging the palm as
Currents race down
Gangly limbs,
Callousing the tips
Of all my fingers.
I hang the guilty,
Now purged of their sin,
From clips on a line
That dangles effortlessly
Form a thresher’s tooth,
Allowing them to fly
With no destination,
Only a journey.
I return inside to dry
My wrinkled, sore digits,
Taking a bit of cloth
Sent to me from back home,
Used as padding
To secure more delicate
Equipment from the future.
Soft and well-kept,
Not a thread out of place,
Not a stain to be seen,
I bury myself within it,
Suffocating all my senses
With memories of what
Was left behind.
Memories of sun-soaked
Afternoons in cooled cars,
Speeding up and down
Wide, flat roads to reach
Familiar faces and warm embraces.
Thoughts of wooden fences
Neat and orderly,
Unlike here.
Visions of white tile floors
Where we would walk about
Our lives unaware of how
The impressions we would
Leave in that house
Would come back suddenly
As I wiped the sweat from
My face having just
Finished the laundry.
Composed 07/08/2012
Author’s Note: Nothing quite like washing your clothes by hand in a plastic tub. I imagine it’s an experience just about every Peace Corps volunteer experiences at least once in their service. My family’s clothes line was held up by a post and a massive rusted thresher. I rather enjoyed that clothesline.
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