名人诗歌|The Wash

A round white troll with a black， greasy¹

heart shuddered^{2 and hummed Diogenes，}

Diogenes， while it sloshed the wash.

It stayed in the ba百度竞价推广ent， a cave-dank

place I could only like on Mondays，

helping^{3 mother. My job was stirring}

the rinse^{4. The troll hummed. Its wringer stuck}

out each piece of laundry like a tongue

socks， aprons^{5， Daddy's shirts， my brother's}

funny （I see London） underpants.

The whole family came past， mashed^{6 flat}

as Bugs^{7 Bunny pancaked by a train.}

They flopped^{8 into the rinse tub and learned}

to swim， relaxing， almost arms and legs

again. I helped the transformation⁹

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^{10 on my stool， I sang a rhyme}

of Simple Simon gone afishing

and poked^{11 the clothes around the cauldron}

and around. The wringer was risky^12.

Touch it with just your fingertip，

it would pull you in and spit you out

flat as a dishrag. It grabbed Mother

oncerolled her arm right to the elbow.

But she kept her head， flipped^{13 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^{14 arm pumping up again，}

like Popeye's. I fished out the rinsing¹⁵

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^{16 water}

curled around the drain and gurgled down.

Mother， under the slanting^{17 ba百度竞价推广ent}

doors， where it was darkest， reached up that

miraculous^{18 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^{19 the baskets up. Too short}

to reach the clothesline， I would slide down

the bulkhead or sit and drum my heels

to aggravate^{20 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 knight²¹

couching his lance and propped^{22 the sagging23}

line up high， to catch the wind. We all

were airborne then， sleeves puffed^{24 out round}

as sausages， bottoms billowing，

legs in arabesque^{25. Our heaviness}

was scattered^{26 into air， our secrets}

bleached^{27 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^28，

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^{29 dancing， pillow cases}

shaking out white signals in the sun，

and my mother with the basket， bent³⁰

and then rising， stretching up her arms.