This will be a listing of every load of laundry I do in the coming year. Sounds like fun, yeah? You doubters, you laundry non-lovers, you'll see. Laundry is the path to righteousness. The poem of my eternal soul. Laundry, laundry, laundry. You'll see.
And my own poem: An American Voice
All this morning I have been thinking what to say, hanging
the blue footy pajamas up next to the tablecloth, one pin
for two corners, wondering if one person could stop you
with the right word, a white nightgown flapping,
for a girl grown too big, the right word,
not complicated, it could be a small word, bright –
as you prepare to start it, to launch
your word war upon the worlds –
I imagine your word leaving your mouth
like a poison, pulsing out pinched and puckered lips,
it drips on your shiny chin, it could burn your skin away,
your blotched skull, the cracked bloody crust of your tongue,
even your very own straight teeth, loose and tipping –
All this morning I have stood in the shadow of your
word, listening from inside the clean prison of my
unspeaking, unsteady, here, where I have fought
to live, I have painted it yellow, filled up my tight cells with
lilies, I have pretended, opened my mouth only to eat –
I wonder if one person could stop you, kneel down
next to you, kneeling quick and hard, the way a mother
grabs her child, caught jabbing a stick at the cat,
cornered – I would grip your shoulders, shove you
slightly, snap, shake, put my face close to
yours, my mouth right up to your mouth,
an inch away – wondering if I could move
my word from my mouth to your mouth,
saying no –
January 2003
