& 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.