The Wheel...The Wheel...The Wheel...The Wheel It Turns 'Round Poem by Dónall Dempsey

Memory
(like Winter)

perfectly preserves it

as if it were a freeze frame
in a movie

one could step into
&
out of

our backyard
Me & my Mam wringing out the clothes
with the water dripping into the tinbath
underneath
the plips & plops of droplets
magnified by water.

I’d feed the clothes into the rollers
minding not to get my fingers caught.

and she like a torturer
with a rack
wrung the clothes dry until they talked

& came screaming out the other side

all crisp ‘n’ flat ’n even.

My tiny hands that could even budge it on my own

would hold on to hers
(powerful & strong)

utterly convinced I was
helping her
with all my puny strength.

“Oh, that’s my son...what a fine
big strong man you’ve become! ”

And she’d never tell me I was
merely in the way.

then she’d slap me playfully
on the bum
and tell me to run away and play:

“That’s a good boy...
. ..you can help Mammy
another day.”

The terrible cold
froze the clothes

into a grotesque mime
on the line

& I’d be crying
complaining:

“I can’t feel my hands
...can’t feel my hands! ! ”

And she’d continue
on her own

turning the wheel
whether it be Winter
or Summer

and nappies grew on the line
& she’d be

pregnant one more time

while inside the house
the last new baby was crying.

“One day at a time
...sweet Jesus! ! ! ! ! ! ”
she sang.

and just got on with
being our Mam.