-Sandra-

the first and only time I was told

to bring the clothes in from the line

I noticed the wooden clothespins

were topped with nubs

their legs slightly open
the tips
gracefully tapered outward to accommodate
the fold of the wash on the rope.


the girls wore dresses
at the Hugo A. Dubuque School
and whatever the social circumstance,—

School, Catechism, the Wakes of their Aunts,
Saturday afternoons at the Strand,—

when they sat down in dresses their legs

opened slightly to light,
more warmly than clothespins,—
something of movement they'd soon
become conscious of.


Sandra would do this too

and like her friends
she did it without an intent to attract attention,
staying within her own attitude of attendance.
she lived on Tobin Street
a few blocks from my house.

nothing sounds like the parched

screeching of the clothesline pulley
as the rope is hauled inward toward the window.
what the christ did leukemia have to do with her?

the sheets air-dried on the line.
skin of her parentage, the light
of the Ponta Delgada.




                                    Quequechan