Every night, my mother leaned over a chipped porcelain tub.
She dragged the crotch of the day’s panties over a washboard.
The crotch of those panties was cleaned thin, shredded bright.
She poured heat onto the absence of stain, pressed, rattled
the room with scrubbing, squeezed without rinsing, draped
the stiff, defeated things over the shower rod. Naked
and bubbled from the waist down, she flipped on the faucet
at the sink, ran the hot water until every surface was slimy
with steam, splashed a capful of disinfectant—meant for soiled
floors and scarred walls—into a rubber bag, filled the bag
with scalding water. She sat on the toilet, spread her legs,
stared again at the strands of silver. She twisted a tube to
the bag, snaked the tube inside her body. The slowly spreading
burn said the day was ending in God’s name. She threw back
her head and bellowed. On a hook, waiting, a white dress.