Jawbox bubbled to sudsy brim.
Water warm as she could stand
she'd steep the sheets,
curls flopping like springs
over brownest eyes.

I'd help her wring.
We wrung until the sheets squeaked,
closing the distance between us.
Maybe she'd sing a song
her mother had sung to her;
an air of love,
old as wind through whin,
plaintive and sweet,
her voice soft
as wash-day breeze.

On drying days,
the old notes still ring,
closing the distance between us.