washday
Joan Papalia Eisert
its hot
its hot
its monday on her head
again
her melting
chocolate baby
sits in the corner
of the folding table
his eyes
lit
with the shiniest duskiness
i’ve ever seen
his cry is thin
she scolds him
as if the warriors of the world
have come to claim
the territory between
her skin and her bones
a sister mother comes by
with a tiny red ball
“catch the ball
can’t you catch the ball?”
mmhmmm
mmm hmmm
catch the ball
can’t you catch the ball
