by Sarah Getty

    A round white troll with a black， greasy¹

    heart shuddered² and hummed "Diogenes，

    Diogenes，" while it sloshed the wash.

    It stayed in the basement， a cave-dank

    place I could only like on Mondays，

    helping³ mother.  My job was stirring

    the rinse⁴.  The troll hummed.  Its wringer stuck

    out each piece of laundry like a tongue——

    socks， aprons⁵， Daddy's shirts， my brother's

    funny （I see London） underpants.

    The whole family came past， mashed⁶ flat

    as Bugs⁷ Bunny pancaked by a train.

    They flopped⁸ into the rinse tub and learned

    to swim， relaxing， almost arms and legs

    again. I helped the transformation⁹

    with a stick we picked up one summer

    at the lake.  Wave-peeled， worn to gray， inch

    thick， it was a first rate stirring stick.

    Apprenticed¹⁰ on my stool， I sang a rhyme

    of Simple Simon gone afishing

    and poked¹¹ the clothes around the cauldron

    and around.  The wringer was risky¹².

    Touch it with just your fingertip，

    it would pull you in and spit you out

    flat as a dishrag.  It grabbed Mother

    once——rolled her arm right to the elbow.

    But she kept her head， flipped¹³ the lever

    to reverse， and got her arm back， pretty

    and round as new.  This was a story

    from Before.  Still， I seemed to see it——

    my mother brave as a movie star，

    the flattened¹⁴ arm pumping up again，

    like Popeye's.  I fished out the rinsing¹⁵

    swimmers， one by one.  Mother fed them

    back to the wringer and they flopped， flat，

    into baskets.  Then the machine peed

    right on the floor； the foamy¹⁶ water

    curled around the drain and gurgled down.

    Mother， under the slanting¹⁷ basement

    doors， where it was darkest， reached up that

    miraculous¹⁸ arm and raised the lid.

    Sunlight fell down the stairs， shouting

    "This way out！"  There was the day， an Easter

    egg cut-out of grass and trees and sky.

    Mother lugged¹⁹ the baskets up.  Too short

    to reach the clothesline， I would slide down

    the bulkhead or sit and drum my heels

    to aggravate²⁰ the troll （Who's that trit-

    trotting……） and watch.  Thus I learned the rules

    of hanging clothes： Shirts went upside down，

    pinned at the placket and seams.  Sheets hung

    like hammocks； socks were a toe-bitten

    row.  Underpants， indecently mixed，

    flapped chainwise， cheek to cheek.  Mother

    took hold of the clothespole like a knight²¹

    couching his lance and propped²² the sagging²³

    line up high， to catch the wind.  We all

    were airborne then， sleeves puffed²⁴ out round

    as sausages， bottoms billowing，

    legs in arabesque²⁵.  Our heaviness

    was scattered²⁶ into air， our secrets

    bleached²⁷ back to white.  Mother stood easing

    her back and smiled， queen of the backyard

    and all that flapping crowd.  For a week

    now， each day， we'd put on this jubilee²⁸，

    walk inside it， wash with it， and sleep

    in its sweetness.  At night， best of all，

    I'd see with closed eyes the sheets aloft，

    pajamas²⁹ dancing， pillow cases

    shaking out white signals in the sun，

    and my mother with the basket， bent³⁰

    and then rising， stretching up her arms.

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