Wednesday, November 23, 2016

THE OLD WRINGER


I was feeding the wringer a washcloth, 
and it nipped, then latched onto my fingers, 
then it swallowed my hand, a delicate crunching,
as the rubber rollers, like the maw of a hungry python
gulped at my tender flesh. I struggled and screamed, 
in anguish, my grandmother came running 
as the wringer inexorably ground its way
up to my arm, to the elbow. The gears gnashing.
I feared for my shoulder, and my head.
Would my entire body pass through the wringer? 
Would I be wrung out flat as a pancake, 
and slide into the tub for my final rinse?
Would she hang me out on the line to dry 
with the rest of the laundry, 
or would she drape me over the rosemary bush 
like the sheets, for remembrance?

11/23/2016 





The wringer took my arm all the way up to my elbow once. I was feeding it a washcloth, and it ate my arm. I screamed, my grandmother came running as the wringer inexorably ground its way up my arm, I feared for my head, would my entire body pass through the wringer? Would I be flat as a pancake, and slide into the tub for my final rinse. Would she hang me out on the line to dry with the rest of the laundry, or would she drape me over the rosemary bush like the sheets, for remembrance?

No comments: