The BlueIris Semi-Nightly Poetry Break, 4/27/09 (warning: graphic language; NSFW)

[BlueIris]

"Vaginal Discharge"

                            for Carolyn Matsumoto, 1959-1984

Everybody has some and everybody knows Dorothy has
beautiful feet and does it matter to anybody other
than of course the ballet master who told her this
is the foot I have been waiting for. Took it in
his hands. Let it rest there on his thigh while he
held her arch. When she told him she was leaving
after her mother told her an impossible command is not
binding and by then her secretions were transparent
milk again. Did he break down. Did he wash
his hands. Is another young girl's arch now in his
palms and Sunny says if there's blush you shouldn't
worry if it goes away. It was just one of those
things tell you how you are and Louise says oh please
everything I do needs counting. It's not something
I talk about. I've come light years to be able
even to look at it and Nancy who gave up dishes
for Lent and it took takes you through her summer
cottage by the water. Shows you her floor.
Linoleum. A natural gray. Tells you how many
years it's been since she washed it but vaginal
discharge makes her remember she does have
laundry problems after all. All it does is
stain your underpants and what I want you to
remember is I can hardly remember what day it is
but my sister has to. Born on washing day she
keeps everything clean. Rinses her face
with skim milk and tears she says for the one marriage
buried and the one gone bad. Douches on Tuesday
with baking soda and warm water then spoons into
herself unpasteurized yogurt so that nothing
will rise inside her if she doesn't make church
to light the candle, lets her make the wish
for the family men. Sobriety and may they keep their
hands in their pockets. When I say how can you go on
believing that she says I have always known how to
cry and although the amount may vary normal bathing
is all you require and washing is after all what we
know and these are the washing stories I know how
to tell you. Sister Christopher who washed her habit
without permission. My grandmother who washes by hand.
It uses up the time that way. And I would have
moved from here to some cheaper place but for leaving
my washing machine. And today a woman like me
is filler for a back page. A woman named
Carolyn. Name of a neighbor. She lived in a bright
green house. Made golden cakes. Layered them
with cream. Hung her wash on the line. Carolyn.
Name of a neighbor's daughter. Always newly washed
she moved like water around delicate washables.
I never heard her speak. And now this Carolyn.
Turned twenty-five this dry cold month. Climbs
into her dishwasher and when the door closed on her
cycle what was washed away and why. And why am I
asking why. What is this sudden sweet taste doing
now in my mouth.

~Frances Driscoll