Light Prints

by David Getman

We rest somewhere beyond the sea, the three of us, one heavy bed.

We run a laundry service, the three of us, one heavy business
we launder the clothes of the dying…




Blouses, bedsheets the lightest beige  – stained with the brownest shit.
While we work we whisper to each other:
i wonder who wore this blouse,
who shit in it,
then rolled,
in this,
soiling it so heavily?


There isn’t much power on our hill, so we drive stakes deep into the shore.
Hanging between the laundry lines, shitty sheets texture our hill with
the sound of paper crumpling,
the sound of grandmothers cackling, coughing, sneezing
the sound of sails flapping in the sea breeze…




“Off to the market?” Sara asks us as we walk by, her lips smeared the same hue as her strawberry blouse.


“You bet!”
“You know it!”


,we reply


(in unison…)




“…they walk like geese,” a young girl whispers in the dairy aisle.
“where’s your daughter from?” a man asks from the fruit stands.
“how old are your sisters?” a woman asks near the spirits.
“how old are you?” the clerk asks at the cash register.
(tonight we are cooking dinner & there will be wine)
i crinkle the skin of a plum between my teeth…






what are we?


,i ask myself at night in the deadening silence, as my muscles stiffen, and i lie in dark sheets between bodies.
I shake them awake.
We dance
to the shore line,
(the three of us.)
@ the beach we’re careful:
we leave only the lightest of prints…


David is almost a feminist. S/he danced in Sara Link-Frenz’s Light Prints, the piece that inspired these words. Watch and listen here.



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