A family of clothes aligned on the line
From smallest to biggest article, pinned
Dresses billow like jellyfish, no spines,
While pant legs bend at the knees, kicked in
By the wind, which is brittle, sour-smelling
Like rain. The air, pregnant, like a woman
Like rain. The air, pregnant, like a woman
Heavy with child, the drying clothes hang
Between hips, old wooden poles that bow in
Tempered by fifty years' weight of this.
The old woman feels the rain in her own bones
Sits at the window, massaging her wrists,
She will go, take down the clothes, alone
As always, as is constant, as is right,
Cry the clothes, flapping on the line like kites.
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