The washing machine, a wedding present
From a rich aunt, transformed the shade of brown
In the diapers and left them a clean scent
But couldn’t take sweat rings on John’s shirts out.
The multi-cycled electric version
Gyrates and rinses her unsoiled dresses
To a soulless clean–fresh blouses like hymns
And towels hushed to a bleached, holy softness.
She pulls up the white lid and looks inside,
smiling, wondering how she has survived.
NOTE: This is a sonnet in a series that is based on the lives of my grandmothers.