"Washers by the Creekside"
(Mid-day in a temporary camp)
The husbands and sons are out
for more important things,
after all, perimeter patrols are essential
to mark boundaries, the imagined havens where wives
can plot the distance between kitchen and creek.
Flags of clothes
fly fearless in the noonday wind.
Strong brown hands tend to soiled bivuoacs
as a god would cleanse, faithful in all things
and fervent, even this act.
A sad and painful simplicity
linger in the stroke
of the last domestic sacrifice.
This washday, these women
their proud faces hid from the sun,
under this holiest of all hours,
are protected by a grace
nothing can invade.
For a moment, guns are silent.
The women spread the clothes
on the grass, like white ceasefire treaties
and in the water rush,
their voices flow like a song.
© 2006 Marty Abuloc
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