Rachel Small

we are all the laundered girls

strung from lines like bed linen                      as a white flag waving in the wind, separated by a
final
            farewell caught in slow motion

(by their hands are the yellow daffodils found          slick with morning dew
         a reminder of rubber raincoats            lost hair bands             beeswax melting from a
candlestick)

and spring does not smell the way the detergent bottle promises. it comes with the strong brag of
cloudy lavender                      taken from fields by girls barefoot, dressed in white.

but instead it exists as a wash of dullness       spun and tumbled in whirls of soapy motions
            rattling in the small room off from the kitchen (left before right       and reversed).

my mother hangs bedding from the line atop the hill             and it waves like a dozen girls

dancing

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Rachel Small (she/her) writes in Ottawa. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in magazines, including ottawater, many gendered mothers, blood orange, The Shore and other places. She was the recipient of honourable mention for the John Newlove Poetry Award for her poem “garbage moon and feminist day.” You can find her on twitter @rahel_taller.