& lays out abuelito’s shirt
along the ridges. turns
on the faucet & a small river
falls out. fills
a plastic bowl with water
& pours it over
the cloth. yesterday he slit
a pig’s throat & fed
his eight children, but the blood
stained his sleeve.
she takes a bar of soap
& rubs the cotton against
the concrete until the life
of last night’s meal comes
out. she squeezes the damp shirt
& the water hiding in it runs
into the mouth at the end
of the washboard. she hangs
the shirt on a clothesline
in the sun. the wind runs through it.
it smells of lavender.