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Washday, Grenada

No people, only their lives
spread out neatly on lines
among figleaves that hide nothing
(except--is it a red box? A cage
lurking lower right like a dog in the shade?),
light caressing the absence,
exposing, quick! before they return,
their reds, blues, purples--sheets,
underpants, shirts, insistent silky black
slip, sun-bleached shacks (also hung
there just for a while), everything
leaning on air, even the blue plastic
wash basin, into which you can almost
see...tepid water still holding
images of a woman's dark brown eyes,
white teeth? Of all the nimble shadows
who shadow these bright shadows?

Dean Blehert

Last Updated: October 5, 2002

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