Laundry
When she received her first laundry machine,
a wonder of torqued water & whiplashed soap,
she cried. I thought I was dreaming, she said. I mean,
my very own laundry machine? She remembers her years
in North Korea, a young mother, dunking a soup of thick rags
in cleft ice. Pounding dirt from worn folds of colorless
cloth, dirt blooming beneath the swift water.
A slab of smooth stone for the beating. Fingers red
and gnawed senseless with cold. This
was her language for courage,
when all softness was thrashed from her skin:
death’s chattering teeth beneath her feet,
all feeling drained out of her hands—
& still raising a fistful of stone to the sky,
still swinging at what could be cleansed.