Aimee Tacon
A single clothesline runs across the stage, bare. There is a low drumming as the LAUNDRY GIRLS enter, baskets in hand, to take their place.
They begin their routine – repetitive, hanging sheets, pillowcases, handkerchiefs.
As the rhyme unfolds it grows in energy, becoming a chant.
LAUNDRY GIRLS
Laundry girls are quiet – laundry girls don’t speak.
Invisible in their silence,
words can’t wash you clean.
A laundry girl’s compliant – she nods and turns her cheek.
Obedient wife and servant,
take it week by week.
Laundry girls hear secrets – whispered to the sheets.
Confessions and escape plans,
a place beyond his reach.
But laundry girls are liars – they wait till he’s asleep.
Set the pillows slow,
watch his breathing heave.
Laundry girls are violent – white stains burgundy.
Precision is a privilege,
not one the laundries teach.
Laundry girls are silent – they strip the linen clean.
Handkerchief to clothesline,
hanging in the wind – almost free.
A single LAUNDRY GIRL, alone, is left pinned to the line.