Official Web Site of Laura Treacy Bentley

A poem in memory of my mother Laura Moore Treacy

Monday

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)