Memory
(like Winter)
perfectly preserves it
as if it were a freeze frame
in a movie
one could step into
&
out of
our backyard
Me & my Mam wringing out the clothes
with the water dripping into the tinbath
underneath
the plips & plops of droplets
magnified by water.
I’d feed the clothes into the rollers
minding not to get my fingers caught.
and she like a torturer
with a rack
wrung the clothes dry until they talked
& came screaming out the other side
all crisp ‘n’ flat ’n even.
My tiny hands that could even budge it on my own
would hold on to hers
(powerful & strong)
utterly convinced I was
helping her
with all my puny strength.
“Oh, that’s my son...what a fine
big strong man you’ve become! ”
And she’d never tell me I was
merely in the way.
then she’d slap me playfully
on the bum
and tell me to run away and play:
“That’s a good boy...
. ..you can help Mammy
another day.”
The terrible cold
froze the clothes
into a grotesque mime
on the line
& I’d be crying
complaining:
“I can’t feel my hands
...can’t feel my hands! ! ”
And she’d continue
on her own
turning the wheel
whether it be Winter
or Summer
and nappies grew on the line
& she’d be
pregnant one more time
while inside the house
the last new baby was crying.
“One day at a time
...sweet Jesus! ! ! ! ! ! ”
she sang.
and just got on with
being our Mam.
Dónall Dempsey
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-wheel-the-wheel-the-wheel-the-wheel-it-turns-round/
