River Water

My grandmother unfurls her large
lime-green bedsheet onto that
broad back of a river stone.

A hand of blue soap colours the
fabric - soon - hands choking,
beating, slapping; suds on the
river’s surface - the fabric loses
all vice, all stain.

Open me, too, Mama, on that
whitened rock; run your veiny
hands from my bronze forehead
to my pink underfeet.

Toss me how the river would
away from you, back to you,
between your bosom and knees.

Notice how all dirty, big, old things
get carried to the open, big water at
Souci? Carry, too, my big, old things.

Unstain me, Mama, on that big rock.