Laundry

Dedicated to my mother.

Laundry on a sunny day in September (9/10/06)

hands swiftly grasp
and drop,
cloth waving like soldiers
awaiting orders
bodies drifting back
and forth as they inhale,
exhale.
she is not ragged
in the sun.
hair no longer red
but gray and brown,
and autumn tree against
a cloudy sky.
her back is strong,
her legs hold the earth.
white t-shirts, washcloths,
and jockey briefs
with honey-colored stains fall
into the white plastic basket.
she carries
it on her hip
as if it were a child.
she sits in front of the TV, CNN,
and folds dad’s boxers with a gentle touch
you could see if you squint your eyes.
she stands, basket in hands,
clothes neat and clean.
the earth holds her legs
up.