Mondays, in her wash house

between the garden and the hen coop,

my grandmother sang,

“Mine eyes have seen the glory

of the coming of the Lord,” while she

pulled khaki pants and denim shirts

through her wringer washing machine.

Work clothes that bore a day’s

cargo of sweat and red dirt,

without daring to wrinkle.

Before the dust kicked up

or the storm blew in, she unpinned

the wind stiffened clothes, singing

“I’m forever blowing bubbles,

pretty bubbles in the air.”

Tuesdays, brown beans and salt pork

hissed on the stove as she sprinkled

and rolled enough clothes

to fill two bushel fruit baskets.

Only towels and wash rags

escaped the grip of her mangle,

the hot kiss of her iron

as she sang, “If I had the wings

of an angel, through this prison

wall I would fly.”

 

Some days I crave the smell of steam

rising from clean cotton,

long for the steady slow pulse

of Tuesday routine:

pillowcase, tablecloth, handkerchief,

press, fold, press, fold, press;

rote progression of blouses and shirts,

facing, yoke, facing,

back, “Swing low, sweet chariot,

coming for to carry me home.”

 

Swing low. Carry me home. Swing low.

 

 

From Traveler in Paradise: New and Selected Poems (Pearl Editions, 2003).

Used here with the author’s permission.