Women, You’ll Understand Me When I Say I

Women, You’ll Understand Me When I Say I

start by carrying it high and tight

like the basket of white

towels in a breaking wicker

basket (the one my son

used to play in and sometimes

sleep in, the one that’s missing

a single handle, so that only one's

left and it isn’t quite as necessary

or that using it throws my body off

and my walk off) and it’s

clean laundry and it’s white

towels and lately after that last

driven rain the basement floor

(the cracking walls invite

it) makes for some scum

when it sucks the dust, and a scrim

of mud.  So I do, I start

by carrying high, by letting it

pinch me under my left arm

and women you understand me

when I say I don’t let go

even though when those

two pieces of wicker rub

together, closing their gap,

and there’s that flap of sagging

(now I can’t say curve, it sounds

so sensual and it’s just not

that accurate) to gather and pinch

in an unfriendly way

and I take it while I step into

the dark and start

to climb the stairs.  I take it

because I’ve bleached and rubbed

the stains I’ve made and this load

and all the rest of them

are clean again

and fragrant folded

and I won’t let a bit of wood

and friction get into me

not while I’m climbing the stairs

not while I’m lifting the left edge

of my elbow to shift the weight

so I can open the door of the dark

and throw the light down

the stairs into the dark of where

I’ve already been as if a yet older

me is there to nod and tuck her

chin in agreement: yes, I’ve been

up from there, I carried

the first thousands

of miles of my life high and tight

up and down stairs in dresses

and men would lift the hem

of them and sniff and growl

and I could’ve turned

all that work out

and tumbled down

and grabbed for the banister

and feel it give way

and then where would I be

on my back in the mud where

they wanted me and the laundry

streaked and spoiled now

                                a nothing

                                a nobody face-

                                cloth laying

                                in the space

                                where once

                                a baby

                                laid his cheek

                                and needed

                                nothing

                                but ease

                                and sleep

                                and clean

                                dreaming

So yes, after the pinch and the one

jagged edge scratching

and thrusting up under

after the dark’s been cleared

and the door closed again

I’m ok

to carry a little lower, let it slip

to my hip as I walk and then

a little lower and stuff my feet

from those ruber boots to wool

slippers and carry it the rest

of the way up another flight

of stairs and change

out the old whites for new

so I can do it again:

the dark

the dirt

the pinching tit

the grin and grit

up and down up and down

the stairs of mothering.