|Posted on June 12, 2012 at 8:50 AM|
A poem in memory of my mother Laura Moore Treacy
My neighbor hangs wet laundry in the sun.
Wooden clothespins turn in her hands.
Like a supple dancer she bends
and stretches her arms over her head.
The clothesline gently sags;
the wind catches the weight.
Her hair floats like milkweed.
At night she irons mended clothes
with swollen hands.
Standing on varicosed legs,
white hair clouds her face.
The hot smell of starch and steam
fills the dark kitchen.
Her windows are painted shut.
But in the morning the dancer returns.
Winds play in her hair.
Hands become swans;
feet rise en pointe.
A new ballet in the wash of days.
(First printed in Controlled Burn and collected in Lake Effect)