Arms blood red
in water warm as she could stand
she'd steep the sheets;
brown curls flopping like springs
over her eyes.
I'd help her wring.
We wrung until the sheets squeaked
and closed the distance between us.
Maybe she'd sing a song
her mother had sung to her.
And still those old notes ring sometimes,
closing the distance between us.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem