Washing Lines

POEM: Washing Lines II

A poem by the award-winning author Diane Awerbuck

You drew all of Egypt over my head.

The roads and rivers were woven into your white shirt:
the sun and the fertile strip and the floating.

I skipped over their heads of crocodiles:
at my heels they steamed and snapped,
their eyes flicking open like yellow umbrellas
too late for purchase
but good for glinting.

On my feet I wore the wings of white birds,
the white birds that lodge
and dip in the long mouths of the brooding crocodiles
the white birds that fly
east to west
and back home again
their wings blurring like laundry in the sun.



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