The Wash

    A round white troll with a black， greasy

    heart shuddered and hummed "Diogenes，

    Diogenes，" while it sloshed the wash.

    It stayed in the basement， a cave-dank

    place I could only like on Mondays，

    helping mother.  My job was stirring

    the rinse.  The troll hummed.  Its wringer stuck

    out each piece of laundry like a tongue——

    socks， aprons， Daddy's shirts， my brother's

    funny （I see London） underpants.

    The whole family came past， mashed flat

    as Bugs Bunny pancaked by a train.

    They flopped into the rinse tub and learned

    to swim， relaxing， almost arms and legs

    again. I helped the transformation

    with a stick we picked up one summer

    at the lake.  Wave-peeled， worn to gray， inch

    thick， it was a first rate stirring stick.

    Apprenticed on my stool， I sang a rhyme

    of Simple Simon gone afishing

    and poked the clothes around the cauldron

    and around.  The wringer was risky.

    Touch it with just your fingertip，

    it would pull you in and spit you out

    flat as a dishrag.  It grabbed Mother

    once——rolled her arm right to the elbow.

    But she kept her head， flipped the lever

    to reverse， and got her arm back， pretty

    and round as new.  This was a story

    from Before.  Still， I seemed to see it——

    my mother brave as a movie star，

    the flattened arm pumping up again，

    like Popeye's.  I fished out the rinsing

    swimmers， one by one.  Mother fed them

    back to the wringer and they flopped， flat，

    into baskets.  Then the machine peed

    right on the floor； the foamy water

    curled around the drain and gurgled down.

    Mother， under the slanting basement

    doors， where it was darkest， reached up that

    miraculous arm and raised the lid.

    Sunlight fell down the stairs， shouting

    "This way out！"  There was the day， an Easter

    egg cut-out of grass and trees and sky.

    Mother lugged the baskets up.  Too short

    to reach the clothesline， I would slide down

    the bulkhead or sit and drum my heels

    to aggravate the troll （Who's that trit-

    trotting……） and watch.  Thus I learned the rules

    of hanging clothes： Shirts went upside down，

    pinned at the placket and seams.  Sheets hung

    like hammocks； socks were a toe-bitten

    row.  Underpants， indecently mixed，

    flapped chainwise， cheek to cheek.  Mother

    took hold of the clothespole like a knight

    couching his lance and propped the sagging

    line up high， to catch the wind.  We all

    were airborne then， sleeves puffed out round

    as sausages， bottoms billowing，

    legs in arabesque.  Our heaviness

    was scattered into air， our secrets

    bleached back to white.  Mother stood easing

    her back and smiled， queen of the backyard

    and all that flapping crowd.  For a week

    now， each day， we'd put on this jubilee，

    walk inside it， wash with it， and sleep

    in its sweetness.  At night， best of all，

    I'd see with closed eyes the sheets aloft，

    pajamas dancing， pillow cases

    shaking out white signals in the sun，

    and my mother with the basket， bent

    and then rising， stretching up her arms.