Laundress by Khalilah Okeke

I am no longer an American
because i,
     peg my laundry on the
     line in the backyard
     Pray it doesn’t rain,
     then rush out to rescue it
     from monsoon downpours
     and lightening bolts.

I am no longer an American
because my,
     husband keeps windows
     gaping in winter, letting in
     sea-breezes, leaving me to
     bare hardwood floors with
     naked feet.

I no longer,
     jump from spiders the size
     of 50 cent pieces, I save my
     terror for the lunging ones the
     dimension of dinner plates.

I am no longer an American
because i,
     collect my mail from a letterbox
     dropped off by a man on a
     motorbike, Gamble with oceans
     that contain the extraterrestrial
     And risk my life for a swim.

Sometimes I wish I were American
so i could,
     toss my laundry in the dryer,
     wear uggs in public, and smoke
     joints on porch steps.

Sometimes I wish I were American
so i could,
     take month long road-trips
     with my family, and watch
     mountain ranges fleet by in
     rear-view mirrors.

I miss,
     lighting fireworks on Fourth
     of July, and doctors that speak
     English. 

I miss,
     sterile hospitals that smell of
     safety, and men that help with
     laundry.



Khalilah Okeke is a North American born: Nigerian, European, East Indian. She now resides in Sydney, Australia, with her husband and two small children. She has had poems published in The Orissa Society of the Americas Journal.