More alike than unalike

Long summer afternoons, heat
like stone, days when we were
giving in to a latticed existence

in our house, one windowless room,
and there, over a plank of wood, mum
washed clothes the old way,

the way it had been done for years,
with sores on the hands that at night,
followed the work faithfully

and then with long movements
she would drag the limp substance
out of the heaving dimness of the water,

and lashed it against the worn, rounded
corners of the wood with such ruled force,
that some darkness grew in me and whitened

long summer afternoons, heat like stone,
days when I would write a poem,
and then wait for it to dry.

Published on the 17th of February 2015 in "The Cadaverine"