holley4734
It’s a little darker than the other poems. I wrote it after a summer of working on washing machines.
Laundry as Death
Somewhere, someone needs 99
washing machines
built by stone-faced women
with tattoos the size of their sadness.
Four days ago,
a container
of toxic detergent spilled on
Roberta’s skin.
Four hours ago,
Zana was smothered
by several red turtlenecks.
And tonight,
the midnight shift
of stone-faced women
will continue to build
washing machines.
