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It’s Hard to Keep a Clean Shirt Clean

Poem for Sriram Shamasunder

And All of Poetry for the People


It’s a sunlit morning

with jasmine blooming

easily

and a drove of robin redbreasts

diving into the ivy covering

what used to be

a backyard fence

or doves shoving aside

the birch tree leaves

when

a young man walks among

the flowers

to my doorway

where he knocks

then stands still

brilliant in a clean white shirt


He lifts a soft fist

to that door

and knocks again


He’s come to say this

was or that

was

not

and what’s

anyone of us to do

about what’s done

what’s past

but prickling salt to sting

our eyes


What’s anyone of us to do

about what’s done


And 7-month-old Bingo

puppy leaps

and hits

that clean white shirt

with muddy paw

prints here

and here and there


And what’s anyone of us to do

about what’s done

I say I’ll wash the shirt

no problem

two times through

the delicate blue cycle

of an old machine

the shirt spins in the soapy

suds and spins in rinse

and spins

and spins out dry


not clean


still marked by accidents

by energy of whatever serious or trifling cause

the shirt stays dirty

from that puppy’s paws


I take that fine white shirt

from India

the threads as soft as baby

fingers weaving them

together

and I wash that shirt

between

between the knuckles of my own

two hands

I scrub and rub that shirt

to take the dirty

markings

out


At the pocket

and around the shoulder seam

and on both sleeves

the dirt the paw

prints tantalize my soap

my water my sweat

equity

invested in the restoration

of a clean white shirt

         

And on the eleventh try

I see no more

no anything unfortunate

no dirt


I hold the limp fine

cloth

between the faucet stream

of water as transparent

as a wish the moon stayed out

all day


How small it has become!

That clean white shirt!

How delicate!

How slight!

How like a soft fist knocking on my door!

And now I hang the shirt

to dry

as slowly as it needs

the air

to work its way

with everything

         

It’s clean.

A clean white shirt

nobody wanted to spoil

or soil

that shirt

much cleaner now but also

not the same

as the first before that shirt

got hit got hurt

not perfect

anymore

just beautiful


a clean white shirt


It’s hard to keep a clean shirt clean.

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June Jordan

June Millicent Jordan (July 9, 1936 – June 14, 2002) was a Jamaican American, bisexual poet, essayist, teacher, and activist. In her writing she…

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