We washed our clothes in an old metal basin by the tap in the back of the house: bars of hard blue detergent, cold water seeping through moss and our rubber slippers. When we bathed, we were careful with our allotment of one pail of water— and so, we rejoiced when rain filled the open drums, and everything could soften without sacrifice. At night, sometimes we heard its other voice, tossing branches into the river.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
