scrubbed limpio


    Filling the daisy-yellow bucket to the brim,


    spilling over onto pale cream tiles. But I


    am not mopping the bathroom floor. Pour


    the hottest water you can find into my field


    of daisies. Bubbling. Good, you haven’t forgotten


    the soap, pink flakes like pencil shavings, melting


    into my hot, yellow tub. No, we don’t use rocks, metal


    teeth that look like kitchen appliances. We will not go down


    to the river, balance jars of water on our heads, wrapped in bolts of bright fabric.


    This is Argentina, not even la provencia,


    but the heart of a smoking city. When the suds


    are hot enough to burn your hands, it’s ready. Are


    you sure those clothes are dirty? This is not America


    Norte, they will not be clean and dry in a couple hours.


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    I thought that shirt looked clean—you made the right choice.


    Now, fill our flower bucket full of tops, bottoms, skirts and billowing blouses.


    Wiggle in socks and tank tops.


    That’s right, watch the floor dance


    with water droplets. Why did we fill


    the bucket so full? Tradition mija! Now wait.


    We have twenty minutes before lights out. No


    time to think of food, laundry! Yes, go get the bucket.


    Reach into gray filmy water. Dig for one piece at a time,


    bobbing for apples. Twist on the faucet. Don’t splash me. Grip the shirt with both


    hands.


    Wring. Rinse. Squeeze. Repeat.


    Work your wrists. I know it hurts.


    Scrub out the street dust, nightly star


    fragments that got caught in your clothes.


    Harder, hermanita. Finger it, any suds left?


    Bubbles, bad sign. Back under the kitchen waterfall.


    Drowning, rising. Cling, pull, stretch. Remember, no water.


    Your laundry should not cry. That looks good enough. Smells like soap.


    Feels like slick hair after the shower.


    Take it outside, to the balcony two people


    cannot comfortably stand in at the same time.


    The sky is too cloudy to see the darkness. Street


    lights. Take laundry pins. Two per piece of clothing.


    Hope it doesn’t rain, or how will they ever dry? Pray for hot


    wind, strong enough to stiffen clothing without ripping down the pins.


    One. I have finished one shirt.


    Wrists red, tender. Hands sore, as though


    I’ve been plucking, shucking corn all day.


    The yellow bucket is smiling a gap-toothed smile.