I think of you every now and then,
your heart hung out on a line to dry.
How many times can you wash a thing?
People don’t live when their hearts are broken
bones and skin--the occasional hair pulled out.
Your children hit with belts and brooms; by you.
You blasted against walls; by him.
Left in a heap like laundry on a cold concrete floor
Do you remember when we walked the hills in summer?
We simmered in the sun. We were so brown.
We had picked all the berries and left the bushes bare of blue.
We crushed the last of the purple iris drying its skin,
peeled from the burn of the sun.
I love the rhythm of laundry on a line in the summer morning, the wind swishes and sways fine nothings, past
poles that tie it to the earth.
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