Poetry: Falling Awake

On the Line

We hang American dreams
In hopes that the sun will shine,
More than cotton swinging on the line.
I am mother’s helper today.
A mass of tangled black hair.
I hand her clothespins for a time,
Then wander off to dig
Among stalks of chives and bulky savoy.
“Aiee ya!” my mother scolds at me
With foreign words and painted gestures
For dirtying my brand new Keds.