Domestic Work, 1937 by Natasha Trethewey

Domestic Work, 1937

 

All week she's cleaned

someone else's house,

stared down her own face

in the shine of copper—

bottomed pots, polished

wood, toilets she'd pull

the lid to—that look saying

 

Let's make a change, girl.

 

But Sunday mornings are hers—

church clothes starched

and hanging, a record spinning

on the console, the whole house

dancing. She raises the shades,

washes the rooms in light,

buckets of water, Octagon soap.

 

Cleanliness is next to godliness ...

 

Windows and doors flung wide,

curtains two-stepping

forward and back, neck bones

bumping in the pot, a choir

of clothes clapping on the line.

 

Nearer my God to Thee ...

 

She beats time on the rugs,

blows dust from the broom

like dandelion spores, each one

a wish for something better.