By Jacqueline de Weever
Wash-day once commanded these
after heavy suds had massaged the clothes.
Heaped in the wicker basket,
they yield to the curtain’s shadows
coloring them honey, grey,
Who can guess the power of their clip
when the wind grabbed shirts by the cuffs
made them wiggle their tails,
turned hems into flounces of Spanish dance,
and sheets, spread out, snatched the scent
of almonds from the trees.
Their grip failed in a stronger gale,
underpants floated like wisps of cloud
over the neighbor’s yard.
Below, in the shadows, like pillars from a temple,
A woman’s legs, planted firmly as her hands
moved, secured the household gods.