Washerwoman

I.                  
Piled up, laundry shows
Even on skin, veins so thick
They clog me up
Murmurings such as water
Can only glimmer for so long

II.               
I want to be washed
Wrung by hands so calloused
My skin breaks

III.            
There is a purity
That stains
And how does one hand feel
To be washed
Over and over again

IV.            
My hand is nowhere
Joined to your hand
There are maps
Fingers cannot trace
So look
Five-pointed as stars
We reach up
To the heavens

V.               
Hold me as sin holds
Crawl into my pores
As water breaks
Subdue tides
Let sand envelope everything
 
VI.           
 The hand that writes
Leads to nowhere
Lonely as sin
This vagueness is fleeting
 
VII.         
All that surrounds
Become walls
Touching it
They lead one
After another

VIII.      
Palms-up
The age-old gesture
Totally dissolved
Washing away.

Ayn Frances dela Cruz

If you have any comments on this poem, Ayn Frances dela Cruz would be pleased to hear from you.

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